The Outlaws
by lafiametta
Summary: The lives of Robin Hood, Maid Marian, and the Merry Men, as they make their way in Sherwood Forest. That is, to say, my own version of how the story continues after the film... Now complete.
1. Into the Woods

_Author's Note: this story follows from the story laid out in the Theatrical Version of the movie, rather than the Director's Cut. (Having just seen the Director's Cut, I noticed that there are some scenes in it that contradict a few of the plot points I put in the story, which was written before the DVD was released.)_

They arrived in the wood just as the sun was falling. It had taken nearly all the afternoon to pack up the household items, Marion's clothes, and some food, and then load it onto the horses. The news would come quick and they didn't have time to waste.

The hour before dark is always an eerie one in the life of a forest. The shadows grew longer and deeper, as the light filtered weakly through the canopy. Few birds could be heard. Only the sounds of leaves and twigs snapping under their horses' hooves broke through the quiet.

Marion could swear she heard the faint sound of laughing in the distance. As she looked up and down the trail, though, she saw nothing.

He must have glimpsed some fear in her eyes, for he clutched her reins and brought both their horses to a stop. Alan, Will, John, and the friar, travelling some distance behind them, stopped as well, conferring privately.

"We don't have to do this, Marion. We can go north. John has kin in the Lowlands."

"There's no need." She sighed. "No one will venture into Sherwood. Not even the Sheriff would be so foolish."

"Perhaps I should just go."

"What?"

"I'm the outlaw, the one they're after. There's no reason for you to do…" – he waved at the forest surrounding them – "…this."

"I made my choice. I want to stand with you. If that means a little dirt and privation, so be it."

"I just…" His eyes softened. "I would never want you to suffer for what I've done."

"What you've done?" She smiled, looking up at him teasingly. "If we're going to list your offenses, let's begin with your exploits of carrying off a damsel – a respectable widow, no less – into your fugitive's lair. What will your chroniclers make of it?"

"Be serious for a moment."

"I am. What you have done, I have done also. I helped you pretend to be Robert, if you remember. And I plan to shelter you, outlaw though you may be. I am just as guilty as you, so it's only fitting that we share the punishment, which, in our case, happens to be this forest."

She spurred her horse on, leaving him behind.

It was getting darker and colder, and she pulled her cloak tighter. As she scanned into the depths of the forest, its shadows seemed to multiply. It would be easy to lose one's way in a place such as this, she thought.

A glint out of the darkness hurtled towards her. A pair of wide, startled eyes, belonging to a doe, rushed headlong across the path, brushing by her horse and causing it to spook. As it jolted along the path, she held tight, trying to keep her balance.

She looked suddenly back behind her, her heart in her throat. With one quick, liquid motion, he had pulled an arrow from the pouch on his back, notched it, drew back the bowstring, and let the arrow soar straight into the beast's chest. It lurched, uncertain of where to move next, until it realized it no longer could, and collapsed suddenly onto the leaves.

As she gained control of her horse, she turned to where the doe lay, its lifeblood seeping into the ground.

"Killing the king's deer? You're definitely an outlaw now."


	2. The Gift of the Hart

_Please note: I'm glossing over the fact that, in the film, Marion led some of the outlaw boys to fight the French. As much as I loved the movie, I found that whole scenario pretty ridiculous, so I'm just going to pretend it didn't happen._

The men heaved to lift up the doe, trussed and bound upon John's quarterstaff. Alan and John, now astride their horses, were to hold one end of the quarterstaff each, with the doe dangling between them. The horses could smell the blood, though, and they danced nervously from side to side, their ears held flat back against their heads.

"At least we'll eat well for a few nights, boys," said Robin, returning to his horse.

"That's well for you to say," grumbled Will. "We don't even have a place to sleep yet, and it's past sunset."

"There's bound to be a clearing close by. We'll make camp soon enough."

Robin mounted his horse, making his way over to where Marion sat upon hers, waiting.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine," she patiently replied. "She was just spooked, that's all. I'm more worried about this mythical clearing you're going to find. I hope it doesn't take half the night."

"Not to worry. If there's one thing I've learned as a soldier, it's how to find a decent place to sleep in the middle of the woods."

"In this, and all things, I yield to your vast experience, milord." She subserviently bowed her head, her lively eyes shining in the rising moonlight.

As darkness blanketed them, the six riders continued down the path, slowed somewhat by the added encumbrance of the deer. They had gone nearly into the heart of Sherwood.

"There we are, boys." Robin stopped, his hand pointing to an open space, surrounded by trees, several paces off to their right. "That's what we were looking for."

As they meandered through the trees, and into the open area, it became clear that they were not the first ones to have found it. Debris littered the ground: scraps of cloth and ripped clothing, overturned cooking pots, and broken iron tools. Off to one side, tree branches had been lashed together to form a small protective roof and blankets lay below it, covering padding full of straw. A cooking fire had just recently been put out.

Robin turned to Marion. "The village boys?"

"Looks like it. I wonder where they've gone."

"Not very far, I'd wager." He climbed down off his horse, walking around the clearing. "That fire's still warm."

"Should we leave, Robin?" Alan piped in. "Try to find them?"

Robin swiveled his head around, peering deep into the darkness beyond the trees.

"I think they might be watching us."

He walked over to where John and Alan stood, the doe still hanging between them. Cutting the ropes that bound it to the staff, he took the animal in his arms, and carried it to the center of the clearing.

"Young men of Sherwood," he cried, "We mean you no harm. We wish only to sit at your fire, and enjoy your hospitality. We have brought you this tribute. This is the honor we pay to you."

Slowly, he laid the doe upon the ground, and stepped back. The forest was silent.

Marion suddenly heard the sound of many footsteps, of whispering. From the spaces between the trees, dozens of boys stepped out, forming a ring around the travelers.

"And who are you, to offer us this gift?" A voice rang from the far side of the clearing, from a figure still shrouded in darkness.

"I am Robin Longstride, these are my men-at-arms, and, of course, Lady Marion Loxley. I must give you fair warning: we are outlaws from the king's justice."

"Lady Marion we well know. But the rest of you are strangers here. Why should we owe you our hospitality? Especially to an outlaw."

As he spoke, he moved closer into the clearing, and Marion could see that he was older than the other boys, but not yet a full-grown man. Perhaps sixteen or seventeen, she thought.

"It is the ancient right of travelers to request a fire and a place to rest their heads. It lies within your generosity to grant it."

The young man stepped out of the treeline and into the moonlight. Marion could see he was eyeing the doe. She looked at the younger boys. They were bony and gaunt, as if they hadn't eaten well in weeks. She could sense their hunger, and so could their leader. If he didn't give in, she thought, they might very well revolt.

"Very well, Longstride. We welcome you to our camp. But know this: you are here under my permission. Do not think to make yourself master here."

"I harbor no such intentions. We only wish to eat and rest."

Robin walked slowly over to the young man, his arms open, palms facing upward.

"To whom do I have the honor of making my request?"

The young man stood, unmoving, his face without expression.

"The ones under my charge, whom I feed and protect within these woods, call me King David."

Robin gave a half-smile.

"One would think you'd have quite enough of kings in these parts."

The young man was not amused.

"I am their protector, their leader. Is it not fitting I should be their king?"

"Of course. I meant no disrespect."

Robin looked around him. Everyone had been eyeing the conversation, trying to gauge where the wind might blow.

"Please excuse me, my lord, as we set up our camp. Some of my men-at-arms will help you dress and cook the deer, and I hope you enjoy it along with our gratitude."

Robin walked back to his party, leading them to an empty area at the edge of the clearing.

"What do you make of that, Robin?" asked Will, his voice lowered.

"Boys, playing at being men," he replied. "We should watch out for the older one. He could be trouble."

"So speaks the outlaw," chimed Marion.

Robin turned to her as he began to unlace one of the packs.

"You should be even more watchful. Didn't you say that an older boy led the raid on your grain house last winter?"

"Yes, but I couldn't be sure it's him. He was wearing a mask."

"Even so, keep your distance." He looked over to the center of the clearing, where the boys were beginning to circle around the doe.

"John and Will, can you get started on the deer? I wouldn't want our young king getting impatient."

After the bags had been unpacked and the horses unsaddled, they began to make camp. Alan and the friar then took the horses into the forest to graze, and Marion and Robin were left alone to start the fire.

He looked troubled, she thought, as she watched him feed greenwood into the sputtering flames. Leadership did not fall as easily on him as he pretended. She knew that he had taken on the responsibility of all of them, herself included, and it weighed on him. She wished she could take some of that burden from him, but she knew just as equally that he would never give it up.

He caught her staring at him, from across the fire, and he sighed.

"I'm sorry, Marion."

"For what?"

"You shouldn't have to live like this. You should be back in your home, with your feather mattress, with your hearth fire."

She smiled gently.

"This is my home now. You are my home."

She walked over to him, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Dropping the greenwood, he held her close, until she felt warm and protected.

"And perhaps we can work on getting a feather mattress," she whispered.


	3. The Siren

Robin had woken early, with the sunrise. Everyone else was still fast asleep, drowsy from the night's wealth of venison and wine, and he didn't have the heart to rouse them from their dreams.

Marion, however, was gone. Hopefully not too far, he thought.

He gazed at her wool blanket, lying parallel next to his own. At some point in the night she had moved closer to him, clearly half-asleep, and he had drawn her into his arms and held her until her breath became even and shallow, and her tired muscles relaxed. He had difficulty sleeping after that.

It wasn't that he didn't want her. For all the saints in heaven, he did. The air caught in his throat whenever he glimpsed the narrow, pale nape of her neck, when his hand turned from the curve of her waist to the small of her back. But he didn't want to press her. She wasn't like other women he had known, not that he had known quite so many in his life. It was clear that she was used to men treating her a certain way, and as much as he tried, he often felt crude and boorish when he was around her. There was a very large part of him that simply could not fathom why she had chosen him, why she abandoned her world – one of comfort, and familiarity – for a life in the vast unknown, with a man she barely knew.

He wanted to understand, though. He wanted to earn her trust. He would have to wait.

As he walked through their camp, and into the forest beyond, his mind turned to the immensity of the task now before them. Fall was coming; winter soon after that. They needed shelter, some sort of permanent camp, and from the look of the village boys as they had greedily devoured the meat he had provided, there needed to be a more steady source of food. He began envisioning temporary wooden huts, followed by thatched cottages, with enclosures for the horses and any other animals they might need. Someone – perhaps Tuck – could set up a clandestine trading system with Nottingham: wild pig and honey liquor for milled grain and iron tools. He became so engrossed in the complex systems of his own devising, while simultaneously selecting proper trees for felling as he passed them, that he did not even notice the stream until he was almost upon it.

It was not so very wide, just a few paces, but it was clear and brisk, and on its edge, sitting on a wide, flat rock and wearing nothing but her shift, was Marion.

He stopped, still with shock and delight, and watched as she untied the laces at the neck and let the shift fall down to her waist.

Her burnished auburn hair fell like waves upon her ivory back. He had never seen anything quite so lovely.

She leaned to scoop up water out of the rippling stream, and as she washed, she began to sing. It wasn't very loud – he couldn't make out the words – but he stood, enchanted, unable to move, almost unable to breathe.

He felt like an ancient knight of legend, coming across a bathing maiden at a deserted forest spring. Would she ask him to perform a courageous act of valor and chivalry? Or was she like the creatures in the stories he had heard in his travels, tales of women who sing of desire and glory to innocent sailors and lure them to their doom upon the rocky shoals?

Did it matter?

He ached to touch her pale skin, her face, her lips, to run his fingers through her long, dark hair and fan it out across his palm. Barring that, he would be content to watch her, even if she sat until Judgment Day at the edge of the water.

Soon enough, though, she had finished her task and began to dress. The heady mixture of longing and awe that had overtaken him began to dissipate. He didn't dare let himself be seen – how could he even begin to explain himself to her? – and so stole away silently under the luminous morning sun.

But there was no escape from the tangled knot of his heart. As much as he was utterly captivated by her – and not just by her beauty and form, but by her strength and good humor – he was afraid for her, and for himself as well. This was not a life for a lady. She had never known true hunger or poverty, a life lived on the margins of the world. She didn't realize what she had bargained for, and once she did, he concluded, she would leave him. He was surprised by how much the thought physically pained him. Perhaps this _was_ love.

When he returned to the camp, Alan and Will were already up and attempting to rekindle the fire.

"Off for a little privacy, eh?" asked Will, eyebrows raised.

"Shut up, Will." He was in no mood for this.

"A lovers' spat, then?"

Robin sighed, and then rubbed his face in frustration. This was no time to be sullen, he thought. There's work to be done.


	4. At the Fire's Edge

The hunters moved carefully through the rowan trees, arrows nocked securely into place, their faces strained and watchful. They had been stalking their prey for the better part of the morning and were not keen to lose its trail in the dense hawthorn brush.

With two fingers, Robin motioned silently to Will to circle round to his left. Alan would take the right, and together they would encircle the boar that remained, at the present, rooting in the earth twenty paces from them. There was always a danger it might charge – especially risky if it was a tusked male – but they had hunted boar together as a team many times before, from Syria to France, and he felt confident in their abilities.

It would make a fine prize to take back to camp, and would feed them all for quite some time. It would also help to ease the tension that had surfaced between the two camps as their settlement had begun to take form. Robin had decided that it would be best to start building some distance from the village boys, so as to avoid any conflict with their imperious leader, but many of them sought out the outlaws' camp nevertheless, looking to be fed or hoping to stave off boredom. He would offer to share the boar with the boys' camp, as a token of goodwill, but he also hoped this would stop them from trickling into his own if they happened to smell the roast of the fire.

All that remained, then, was to snare it.

They moved in tandem across the forest floor, their senses heightened and alert. Alan and Will, each taking a flank, moved silently in a diagonal, cutting off any chance of the animal's escape. Robin, as the rearguard, would follow, and on his signal they would let loose and fire.

He stepped lightly, knocking aside some stray foliage with his foot. The boar suddenly looked up, sensing a foreign presence. It sniffed the air expectantly.

Robin nodded quickly at Alan and Will. They had to strike now, before it had the chance to flee. In chorus, two arrows sang through the air, burying themselves in the boar's ribs and belly. It squealed, darting towards the open space between Will and Robin.

As Robin turned towards it, aiming his arrow at its throat, the boar swerved towards him, now on the attack. His arrow was loosed and found home, as did another pair from Alan and Will, and the boar slowed, but not enough. Spittled with fury, its final, bloody act was to drive its lower tusks into his thigh, before it finally fell to earth.

He roared in pain, grasping the wound as blood seeped around his fingers.

Alan caught him before he fully collapsed. As Alan laid him down upon the ground, Robin watched him yell out to Will for help, but the sounds were strangely hushed. All he could really hear was the pounding of his own heart, erratic and staccato, throbbing in his ears. He looked up to see Will ripping some fabric from his tunic and leaning down to tie it above his wound.

The world went dark and then disappeared completely.

o o o o o o o o o o

He awoke covered in a sheen of sweat, his mind still hazy with the chaos and confusion of fever dreams.

He blinked, his eyes still adjusting to the light, although it appeared that he was indoors. This seemed strange to him, as there was no indoor space for miles. Where was he?

He made an abortive effort to try to raise his head and then groaned.

"Praise the saints, you're finally awake."

His eyes drifted over to where Marion sat beside him.

"Hhhh…" He swallowed, his mouth dry and thick. "How long have I been asleep?"

She leaned over him, a cool, damp cloth in her hands, laying it gently on his forehead.

"A very long six days."

"Six days." He paused, considering it. "And where are we?"

"After they brought you back, Alan and Will were sick with worry. John too, once he saw the state you were in. I told them to work on the cottage to take their minds off it. They finished it yesterday."

"They finished it?"

He looked around him, closely this time. Along the walls, the joints in each spar had been carefully chiseled out, the timber stacked straight and even, and cemented with clay and straw mortar. Above him, the ceiling was graced by a thatched roof, a smoke hole built into one corner.

"It's sound. I must have been in a bad way."

Her eyes went dark, the broad planes of her face hardening.

"There were moments."

She laid her hands on his cheeks.

"You're still fevered. I'm going to bring you something to cool you down."

She rose, but before she got to the door, she turned back to look at him.

"Don't ever do that to me again," she whispered.

As she walked outside, into the harsh sunlight, he began to consider all they had accomplished. He had imagined that it might take a few weeks to finish building. He never thought they could finish it so quickly, especially without him. He had to admit, it was rather impressive.

He made a decision to try to move, beginning with his arms. Weakly bringing himself up on one elbow, he looked down at his leg, which had slowly begun to burn. A red angry line the width of his palm ran down the front of his thigh, the two sides stitched together with white linen thread. His eyes widened and he swallowed. He lay back down again.

"Finally up?"

He looked over to see Alan's outline perched in the doorframe.

"Up at last," he replied. "Nice to hear you all were so busy while I was indisposed."

"Gave us something to do, at least. We didn't like sitting around and waiting."

Alan took the seat beside him.

"You could have kept Marion company, at least. I'm sure she would have appreciated someone staying with her while she kept watch."

"Kept watch? Your lassie was busier than a fish peddler in Lent. I don't think I saw her sit down, except to fall asleep from exhaustion."

"What?"

"She kept going out to gather herbs, to put on your leg, and the boys she sent to trap rabbits and forage for fruit." He pointed at the gash on Robin's thigh. "She was the one that sewed that up. Just took an embroidery needle out of her pack and went straight to work."

Alan leaned closer, his voice lowered.

"To tell you truly, Robin, she scared me a bit. If something had happened to you, I'm not sure what she would have done."

"I'm glad it didn't come to that, Alan."

"You know, you're a lucky bastard, to have a woman like that. I think she would follow you to the ends of the earth." He paused, slapping his hands against his thighs. "Well, off I go. Don't want to tire you out too much."

Robin laid his head down and closed his eyes. He heard Alan's departing footsteps, as well as another set entering, but his head felt so heavy, and he succumbed to the weighty pull of sleep.

o o o o o o o o o o

That night, once he had woken again, they carried him to the camp's central fire. They ate their fill of rabbit and wild apples and listened as Alan strummed a courtly tune on his lute.

As the music played, he looked at her, sitting beside him, the fire lighting up her face.

She really was beautiful, he thought. There was a grace and nobility in the way she carried herself, something that was just a part of her, that couldn't be taught. He saw her strength, her iron spirit, and her sweetness and her joy. How could he have turned himself inside out with worry over her? Immediately, he knew the answer.

She smiled at him, and he leaned over to her, so close his lips brushed her cheek.

"Marry me. Please."


	5. The Luxury of Time

As she walked through the trees, she kept the words close to her heart, like a secret.

Savoring the cadence, she said them over and over to herself.

_Marion Marion marry me please._

After he had asked her, she hadn't replied. Only later had she told him she needed time to think on it. He looked hurt, but didn't press her. He must have imagined that I would succumb and fall into his arms, she thought. But God made me of a different kind than that.

She didn't want to say no. She just didn't want to say yes quite yet. She wanted the luxury of a little time.

It would be strange to have a husband. For so many years, she had been a wife without one. A wife in name, not in practice. She had no idea what to expect.

She had been well prepared, the first time, by a mother who knew the ways of husbands. What they thought, what they disliked, what they wanted, what they didn't yet know they wanted. She learned how to spin and sew, how to manage servants and make conversation. There was a particularly unpleasant, though thankfully brief, discussion about how often she should lay back and open her legs – as often as he liked – and what she should do once he was done – apparently nothing.

This bounty of knowledge had not done her mother any good, however. Her father, though poor, was proud and cruel, and took great pleasure in ignoring his wife and spoiling his dogs. He did not speak a word to Marion until she was fifteen, and then only to ask when she was going to finally grow some breasts. She cried for two days.

By the time she was betrothed to Robert, her father had been dead for several years, but she was so overjoyed with the idea of leaving her house, of finally escaping his memory, that she agreed to move even before the wedding took place.

But when she finally arrived at the manor house at Pepperharrow, she was terrified of what was to come. It didn't help to learn – from the servants of course, as her mother would have never told her – that Robert had been married before, to a sweet, blond slip of a girl, who died at seventeen in a riding accident. Marion felt old and awkward. She thought about going home.

The only thing that stopped her was Robert. He had a smile for her each morning and an easy tranquility about him that she liked. She grew to appreciate the quietness that enveloped him.

Soon they were married. And soon he was gone, the king's summons having called him to London. They had a few short days together, as man and wife, spent mostly in their bedchamber, though in the end, months later, she had little to show for it. She never saw him again.

It always pleased her to recall those few married days. She often thought that she had dreamed them, so different they were from the months and years that followed.

Now she would have to learn again what it was to be a wife. This time not at her mother's knee or in a fleeting memory of laughter and bed sheets, but with a man who was flesh and bone, who looked at her with worry and hope and love.

She smiled at the thought.

The camp was dark as she made her way back to the cottage. They had all gone to sleep: Will, Alan, and John snoring on the floor, Robin lying on his side on the platform bed in the corner, his injured leg sticking out at an angle.

Impulsively, she climbed into the bed, lifting up the wool blanket that covered him and pulling it over herself. She wrapped her arms around him, her body touching his, and began to gently kiss the back of his neck. With a muffled sigh, he turned towards her in his sleep, resting his head on her chest. She watched his head rise and fall with her breath.

"You've been gone a long time," he said, his voice thick.

"I've been thinking."

"What about?"

"Where I'm going to find a proper dress to be married in. Everything here is covered in dirt, or blood, or has a hole in it."

He laughed gently. His arms tightened around her waist.

"We'll find you a dress."

"Alright. But something pretty. Maybe in blue. It's my best color."

"It is that, Marion. You'll be radiant."

In the darkness, their hands met. Two sets of fingers, rough and callused, pale and strong, wrapped around each other, refusing to be parted.


	6. The Lord of Pepperharrow

_For all of you who've stuck with me so far, thanks! I appreciate all your feedback. Anyway, as this story is labeled Adventure/Romance, I thought we might up the Adventure quotient a little more this go round. After all, what's a Robin Hood story without some Robin Hood-y parts? _

He couldn't help looking at her. She sat hunched, in the shade of a birch tree, wearing a look of deep concentration as she stitched back together a tear Will had made in his best shirt.

He was supposed to be working on the enclosure fence, but he was finding it uncommonly difficult to focus on the task at hand. Even John had complained when Robin's axe, which ideally would have been aimed at the center of the tree branch, came within a hand's-breadth of his own ear.

What of it? he thought. Why should I not be able to look at the woman who has agreed to marry me?

The fact that she had said yes was both glorious and terrifying. Above all, though, he was filled with a desire to do things right by her: he would find her a proper church – and a proper dress – to be married in, as she well deserved. He was waiting to hear from Tuck about the first part, and as for the second, he had some ideas in mind.

Laying the axe down, he looked over at her again. She had risen, her hand shading over her eyes as she looked off into the distance, to the edge of their camp. He followed her line of sight. Visitors were approaching.

He recognized the silhouette of Tuck in the dappled light, but he couldn't identify the man and woman who accompanied him. A clutch of panic shot through him: the friar was the only one who was supposed to know how to find them. Why had he brought anyone here?

"Thomas? Is that you?"

She had dropped the shirt and rushed over to where the newcomers were approaching. Now Robin recognized the man: he was one of the house servants from Pepperharrow.

Concerned, he walked over to where the group was forming.

"What's this, Tuck?"

"Master Robin, you'll remember Thomas. And Maggie, of course."

Robin nodded.

"You'll want to hear his story," Tuck continued. "Especially you, Lady Marion."

Their eyes turned to where Thomas stood, his feet shuffling in the dirt, now seemingly discomfited about being the center of so much attention.

"Well, it's like this, milady. A fortnight ago, we get the news that the king has given the estate straight to the Sheriff, title and all. He's to be the king's man in these parts, they say." He paused, kneading his lined brow.

"Go on, Thomas," she said.

"I serve the lord of Pepperharrow, like my father before me, and his father before him. Your ladyship knows how much I cared about Sir Walter, but if the king says the Sheriff is the new lord, then he is, and I will serve him, too.

"But once the Sheriff comes, he says he's no need of us, now the harvest is done. He's got his own men who can run the manor."

"He put you all out?"

"That he did. Not just us from the house, either. All the ones who worked Sir Walter's land, they've all been pushed off."

He sighed.

"I've lived at Pepperharrow all my life. I've no kin elsewhere, not like most of the others. It was just me and Maggie left at the end." He motioned at the young woman standing to his right. "We thought we might be able to find you, and ask you what to do."

She grasped his hands in hers.

"Well, of course, you both can stay here as long as you like. I can't speak for the accommodations, but we've plenty of food and good company."

She began to take them towards the center of the camp.

"Let's get you something to drink. And then you can rest."

Tuck held out a hand.

"Wait, there's more. Finish your story, Thomas."

Thomas cleared his throat before continuing.

"The Sheriff and his men, they took all the harvest grain."

"Surely they left some seed, for next year?" Marion asked.

"No, milady. They said traitors don't deserve to live off the king's bounty."

"Bastards!"

Robin put his hand on her arm.

"Marion, please."

"Well, that's what they are! Greedy, cruel little boys."

He wanted to say something reassuring, to calm her down, but Tuck leaned over, motioning him aside.

"That grain is being milled and sold in Sheffield. And then the Sheriff's coffers go under lock and key back at the manor."

Robin stood, considering this.

"But the money has to go back to Nottingham from Sheffield," he replied.

"That it does. Probably not much of an escort, though. Perhaps half a dozen men."

"Interesting." He paused. "Out of curiosity, how did you manage to acquire this particular information?"

"The Sheriff's second man, he talks when he's drunk. On all number of topics."

"He didn't happen to mention when they plan to leave, did he?"

"He didn't have to. I watched them go this morning."

"It's too long a trip to make it back today," Robin mused. "If they start mid-day tomorrow, they won't make it back until at least nightfall. It gives us just enough time."

"Time for what, pray tell?"

Robin opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.

"Wait. As a man of the cloth, I cannot countenance the intention of sin." Tuck grinned. "Let us speak in the hypothetical."


	7. A Man of Experience

Being a soldier was much like being a hunter, Robin thought as he peered through the darkness. Endless waiting and boredom, followed by sharp moments of terror and rage. He pictured in his mind how the attack would go: each part had been carefully planned and considered, and now it only waited on the arrival of the convoy.

His legs ached and he was tired of squatting in the underbrush. He looked over at Will, who yawned and then began to scratch himself.

Robin closed his eyes and let his mind wander. The convoy would come soon enough, and he would need all of his energy to ensure they made it through the night alive.

He thought back to their conversation. She hadn't wanted him to go. She couldn't understand why he would put himself – all of them – in harm's way.

"This is all due to me," he said to her, taking her hand as they sat together. "I raised the ire of the Sheriff, and they're all being punished in my stead. I won't allow that to happen. They won't starve on account of my unwillingness to fight."

But his words masked his fear. He didn't want to play at politics: he could see what meddling with the powerful had done for him so far. He had come to realize, since his return to England, that his wants were small. A piece of land, a wife, children to remember him. That's what made a man, not oversized ambition or political skill. But now the hornets' nest had been overturned, and he felt an overwhelming duty to protect those who were suffering on his behalf.

"At least let me come with you, then," she asked. "I couldn't bear not knowing if something happened."

"No, Marion," he said with a shake of his head. "It's difficult enough not thinking of you when you're not there. I couldn't keep my head clear if I thought you might be in danger."

"I can take care of myself."

"I said no," he replied, his voice rising. "Can you not just stay here, for my sake, at least?"

He was surprised how quickly she had given in. At least one less thing to worry about, he thought, his eyes turning back to the rutted road along which the convoy should soon be approaching.

Soon enough, he could hear the steady pace of horses' hooves. There was another sound, though, accompanying it. They all looked into the distance.

"Robin, that's an armored wagon!" cried Will. "You said there were only going to be riders."

"Who knew the Sheriff was going to be so protective of his ill-gotten wealth?" he replied.

He tried to concentrate. They needed to change their plan, quickly.

"You all remember what we did at Jaffa?"

"Wait, the vizier's daughter?" asked Alan. "The one we were to capture and ransom?"

"The very one. Remember how we got that convoy to stop?"

"Robin, I don't see any palm trees in the vicinity."

"We can do one better."

He looked behind them, into the shadows of the forest.

"John, Alan, grab those fallen logs. Get them set next to the road. Will, make sure that everything else is in place."

As the convoy approached, Robin could feel his stomach start to tighten. He said a quick prayer, and drew his bow, an arrow at the ready.

He counted his heartbeats, waiting for the moment.

"Now, Will!"

Will, crouched close to the road, pulled tightly on a set of ropes that had, up until this moment, lain unseen across it. From the other side of the road, attached firmly to the ropes, came half a dozen elderberry bushes, roots and all, moving quickly into the path of the oncoming horses. Spooked, they reared, one throwing its rider. The wagon came to a stop.

"Alan! John!" he hissed.

Like mirror images, the two men each shoved their logs into the road, John's before the front wheels of the wagon, Alan's behind the back ones. The horses leading the wagon, terrified at this intrusion, tried to run, but found that their burden refused to follow behind them.

"Gentlemen!" cried Robin, walking out into the open, hooded and armed. "That's a very heavy load you're carrying. It would be our pleasure to relieve you of some of it."

"This is the Sheriff's property," growled the thrown rider, getting onto his feet. "And we're not giving it up for no whoreson come out of the forest. You can have it when we're dead."

"Not an ideal option," Robin replied. "But under the circumstances…"

He fired his arrow into the rider's arm.

Now that they had given up the element of surprise, they would have to rely on their fighting abilities. Nothing hardens a man like experience, and that they had, at least. He knew to watch for the moment when Alan's dagger, well hidden in his boot, would emerge, to the confusion of his adversary. When Will's blood was up he often responded with elbows to the face, followed by howls of anger in Welsh. Robin himself was more disciplined. Calm and careful, he told himself, when he raised his bow or threw a punch.

He was ready, then, when the injured rider broke the arrow's shaft at the point of entry and began to lunge at him with his sword. His bow now held securely on his back, he drew out his own sword and advanced against his opponent.

The rider was a good swordsman, even with an injured arm. Robin had to give him that. They parried back and forth across the road for what seemed like hours: the only sounds were the meeting of steel and their labored breaths.

Robin began to feel his tiredness. The sword was not his natural weapon. Lowering his arm, to let it rest for a moment, he felt a sharp sting as his opponent's blade cut across the top of it. Surprised, he looked down at the wound, only to have the man kick him hard in the stomach.

He slipped and tumbled to the ground, his sword landing beyond his grasp. His opponent's sword point was now aimed directly at his throat.

He swallowed, considering the fact that these would be the final breaths he would be taking.

He heard a thwack, and watched the sword point as it fell, from a place right around his eye level, down to the ground, landing with a clatter. His opponent now lay dying, his breath an empty rattle, an arrow now protruding from his chest.

"Couldn't keep your head clear, hmm?"

He looked behind him. Marion, dressed in one of the boys' clothes, stood with her bow raised, her face hooded in shadow. She held out her hand. He took it. He realized that he wasn't even surprised to see her.

"Not really, no."

Once on his feet, he saw that the rest of the Sheriff's men had been subdued or injured. A few were lying on the ground unconscious.

Robin came round to the back of the wagon. The doors were bolted together with a well-built iron lock.

"The first man who tells me where I can find the key to that lock will earn the right to live."

One of the men, held firmly in place by the threat of John's quarterstaff, pointed at the dead man in the middle of the road.

He sighed. Rummaging through a corpse was never a pleasant experience. Thankfully, the iron ring with its single key lay just on the dead man's belt, and it was not difficult to free.

Soon enough, the lock was opened and the doors to the wagon thrown out wide. They simply stared for a moment.

"There must be close to five hundred gold pieces there…" Will murmured.

"Probably more," replied Robin. "Let's get it loaded up."

Alan had brought the men's horses round, leading them to the back of the wagon. Methodically, they filled each saddlebag with money, until there was nothing left.

Robin turned to their captives.

"In you go."

"You want us to get in there?" one of them asked, pointing to the back of the wagon in disbelief.

"I do. Did I not promise you your life?"

The man gulped.

"This is how you'll keep it. Now get in."

Fearfully, they obeyed, until they were all securely inside, and the doors swung close. The iron lock was put back in place, the key tossed into the underbrush beyond the road.

"What happens now, Robin?" asked Will.

"We leave them. It's a busy road. Someone will find them soon enough." He spurred his horse forward.

They made it back to the camp just as the sun was rising. Robin felt tired in every conceivable place in his body. He wanted to lie down and forget about the world for a time. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and take comfort in the fact that they were both alive. But there was some final business to attend to before he could get to that.

He found the friar dozing against a tree, snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

He dropped one of the saddlebags on the ground. The sound shook the friar from his sleep.

"That's for your alms collection."

Now awake, the friar opened the bag, his eyes opening wider at quantity of gold. He smiled.

"Thank you, my son. I have a feeling Mass is going to be very popular this Sunday."


	8. Restoration

In the days that followed, Marion could tell the raid on the convoy had done its damage. Word now was that the price on Robin's head had doubled. It was all for nothing, she knew. No one would turn him in, not now.

But there were reprisals. Tuck continued to bring refugees from Nottingham, one or two at a time, into their haven. One man had been so badly beaten by the Sheriff's men that he could no longer walk. There was little they could do for him, beyond making him comfortable.

One arrival in particular was making a stir within their group. Joanna, the miller's daughter, who had become so friendly with John during his brief stay in town, had come with her mother. Whether she had fled out of fear from the predations of the soldiers or if she simply wanted to see John again, Marion didn't know. He lit up when he saw her, though, and seemed to find excuses to visit with her, despite the fact that he turned red and tongue-tied on most of those occasions. At least something good had come of all this, she thought.

Their numbers also increased as many of the village boys had found their camp to be a permanent home. She learned from a handful of them that their leader – in a petulant fury – had forbidden them from going near the outlaws' camp. A few obeyed, but many simply abandoned him. As some of the boys now reunited with their village kin, it began to feel like they were recreating the world they had lost, Nottingham before the arrival of seven years' hunger and hardship.

She wished she felt more content. It should please her, she knew, to look upon full bellies and gladsome faces. But the memory of that night continued to gnaw at her heart. As she slept, her dreams were disturbed by depths of blood, and in the day, she found that she no longer had much of an appetite.

To ease her soul, she knew she had to seek out the friar. The next time he visited, she managed to pull him aside.

"Father, I wonder if I might have a few moments of your time."

"Of course, Lady Marion. What is it you wish?"

"I was hoping to make my confession," she replied.

They managed to find a quiet place, far from the bustle of the camp.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession."

The silence weighed on her.

"I killed a man, Father. I did murder."

"And why did you do this?"

"I did it to save the one I love from being killed."

"For no other reason? Not anger or hatred?"

"No, Father. I didn't even know the man I killed. It's just that...I couldn't stand back and watch him die."

Her voice caught, and she could feel her eyes begin to fill with tears. He took her hand.

"There have been many wise and learned men of the Church who have considered the nature of sin. They have debated whether the act itself constitutes the sin or if certain conditions have to hold in order for the sin to be real."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"The question comes down to the idea that it is the intent which makes the sin. Why one acts in the manner that one does."

He paused.

"To take a life is a grave offense indeed, and if done out of greed or rage, it is truly a mortal sin. To do it in order to save, to do it out of love, is something different. Still an offense against God, but one that I'm sure He finds far more forgivable."

"Then I can be absolved?"

"There will be a heavy penance, but yes. But even greater still will be the remembrance, in your heart, of what you've done. You should keep it there, for as long as you can."

Enveloped in the quiet, she considered his words carefully.

"Is there anything else you wish to confess?"

"Well," she began, blushing, "I have on several occasions looked on a man with lust."

The friar's eyes widened.

"I have agreed to marry him, though, so I can't imagine it would cause much offense."

"Even so, let's add that to the tally."

After he absolved her, she felt physically lighter. Confession had not wiped away the memory, but it made it bearable. God understood why she had done what she had done. He had looked into her heart and found it untarnished.

Back at the camp, she found him with Will and John as they supervised the building of a new cottage. He was kneeling on the ground, drawing plans into the dirt.

She leaned down and kissed him softly on the top of his head.

"What's that for?"

"Nothing," she replied, her face full of tenderness.


	9. Edwinstowe

The days were getting shorter and an autumn chill steeped in the air. The leaves on the trees had turned gold and crimson; in the right light, the forest looked to be aflame.

Robin found her just as the sun was setting, the light casting a ruddy glow over her skin. She was scouring a cooking pot and didn't mind the interruption.

"Marion, I need you to get your traveling cloak."

She looked up at him questioningly.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"I'll tell you on the way."

"But what about dinner? Maggie's been working on a stew all afternoon…"

"We'll take something with us to eat. Just go get your cloak, alright?"

She knew better than to keep asking questions that he so clearly had little intention of answering.

"Fine. Do I need to saddle my horse?"

"John's taking care of the horses."

"He is, is he? Does John know where we're going?"

His eyes narrowed in exasperation. He simply pointed towards the cottage, where he must have known her cloak was hanging upon the peg on the back of the door.

The ride was not very long – Marion could see the moon peeking out from behind the fringe of the tree tops – and soon enough the five of them came to the edge of the forest and looked upon the small village just beyond its reach.

"What place is this?" she asked.

"Edwinstowe," he replied.

Slowly, they made their way to the outskirts of the village, trying to remain hidden in the inky shadows of the trees. They stopped outside a small building, lit from within.

After they dismounted, Robin took the reins of their horses.

"I'm going to go tie them up," he said to her. He nodded his head in the direction of Alan, Will, and John before he stepped away. "I think they have something for you."

Will handed her a parcel, wrapped in rough linen. Unfolding it, she found herself staring at a gown of indigo, made of fine virgin wool. A geometric pattern embroidered in pale blue silk decorated the collar and the fashionably wide sleeves. Atop the dress was a wreath of interwoven oak leaves.

She looked up at them, her eyes full of amazement and gratitude. They sheepishly grinned and stole away into the building.

"Wherever did they find this?" she asked Robin, once he returned.

"When it comes to those three, I think it's better not to ask."

"So, a blue dress, hmm?"

"It is a blue dress."

"And what's so special about Edwinstowe?"

"Tuck knows the deacon here. In exchange for a barrel of mead, he agreed to leave the church empty for an hour, no questions asked."

"A dress and a church? With so many presents, it truly is a wedding."

He smiled at her.

"Will you go get dressed? There's an empty shepherd's hut just up the path…"

As she pulled the gown over her head, she marveled at its softness. It must have come all the way from London, she speculated. How it ended up in the saddlebag of an outlawed ex-soldier living in the middle of a forest was another issue altogether.

She found she couldn't stop herself from smiling. She wished, though, that he had told her to bring a comb along with her cloak: her hair was a mess of tangles. To hell with it, she thought, pulling it into a single braid, and placing the wreath on her head.

The church itself was small, but filled with candles. It smelled of beeswax and the traces of incense. At the end of the aisle, in the apse, stood Robin, Will, Alan, and John, as well as the friar, who must have already been inside when they arrived. Robin had changed clothes as well: he wore a new tunic, of forest green, and a woven leather belt. She could see by the pinkness of his ears that he had been scrubbing them.

"Three bridesmaids?" she asked, walking towards them. "I didn't have that many at my first wedding."

She linked her arm in his.

"You look beautiful," he whispered in her ear.

Tuck began to recite the Latin words, but she wasn't really listening. She was looking at the brown flecks in his green eyes, at the hidden cleft in his chin where his beard was beginning to come in grey, at the shadows of musculature under the skin where his neck and shoulder met.

"I will," she said, when the friar asked.

Robin presented her with a ring, silver with entwined knots. She looked down to realize she was still wearing Robert's gold band. With a pang in her heart, she took the new ring and placed it on her finger atop the old.

"He brought you to me," she said to him softly. "It's good that I should remember him."

He nodded briefly, and took her hand within his own.

"In nomine patris, fili, et spiritus sancti. Amen."

The quiet filled the church like a soft sigh. He looked at her, his eyes full of faith and wonder, and moved his lips to hers. As they kissed, she felt her body singing: it held a clear, full note that vibrated through her. Her lips found his – gentle first, then fierce – and she knew he heard it too.

He smiled at her, their foreheads touching.

"Let's go home," he murmured.

Turning to go, she suddenly heard a discordant sound: the crash of glass and the crack of a heavy object hitting the stone floor. She first looked up at the shattered stained glass window and then down to where the flaming torch lay dangerously close to a wooden pew.

Robin's hand went to his sword, the others' towards their bows.

"Longstride!" a voice cried from outside the church. "We know you're in there!"

They didn't answer, but she watched as his face spoke to the others without words, as only soldiers' can.

"We want Lady Marion," the voice continued.

His expression turned puzzled; clearly this was not what he anticipated.

"You will send out Lady Marion, or we will burn this whole church to the ground with all of you in it."

Alan had peered through one of the narrow windows.

"There must be close to fifty of them!" he hissed.

She watched him as his mind turned itself inside out, searching for a plan.

"We will not wait forever, Longstride!"

She squeezed his hand.

"I'll go."

"No, Marion!" he cried. "I'm not letting you leave."

"Think clearly, husband," she said, savoring the sound of the word. "Those are the Sheriff's men. They're going to take me back to Nottingham. I can find a way to escape – I know the place like an old friend. And what other choice have we? If you choose to fight, we'll all die."

He looked at her, unconvinced.

"I'll see you soon," she said, kissing him softly.

As she opened the door, she allowed herself to look back at him, just for a moment. Please, God, she asked, let me see his face once more.

Outside, the night air was thick with smoke and the smell of unwashed men.

"Lady Marion, how nice for you to join us."

The Sheriff's man was small and wiry, an old scar tracing the side of his face. He led her to a saddled horse.

"I'm not much for conversation. Can we just get on to wherever it is you're taking me?"

"Of course, Lady. Whatever you wish."

Her hands were bound to the saddle, but she was given no reins. One of the men would be leading her through the darkness.

"You'll remember your promise, though?" she asked. "They're not to be harmed."

"Did I promise that?" he answered, grinning.

On his signal, the door to the church was bolted. A dozen of the men threw their torches onto the thatched roof.

She screamed and then she fainted.


	10. The Captive

Clearly the new lord of Pepperharrow did not devote much of his attention to housekeeping. The rushes on the floor of Walter's old chamber should have been replaced weeks ago, while the tapestries – purchased, she knew, at great expense from the Low Countries – were full of dust and in need of a proper airing. This is what happens, she thought, when you dismiss all your servants and try to force soldiers to be stewards. Even a blind man was able keep a tighter rein on his staff.

She had been given plenty of time to consider the shabby state of the manor house as she waited for the Sheriff to arrive. It was better, she knew, to plan her next move and, hopefully, her escape from Nottingham rather than think about what had happened back at the church. She wouldn't allow herself to think about them. It was too much to bear. She needed to focus on the present.

The long ride had left her dirty and tired, but she would need her wits about her if she was to make it out of the house unscathed.

Her mind wandered back to the savage creep of the flames as they had danced along the rooftop, the hiss and sputter as the fire ate into the thatch and the roof beams below.

She squeezed her eyes to stop the memory and took a deep breath. She tried to clear her mind.

The first thing to do, she reasoned, would be to make herself more presentable. She untied her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders, and then pinched her cheeks to bring out some color. She loosened the top lacings of her gown just enough to look disheveled, but not slatternly. Finally, her new ring was deposited into the inside pocket of her gown. Would it be enough to work? It didn't matter: realistically, she knew there were no other options.

The door opened with a heavy creak.

"Good evening, Marion." The Sheriff's voice was smooth and polished, as ever.

"That would be _Lady_ Marion," she replied, as he entered the room.

He had brought a guard with him. Damn, she thought. This is going to be trickier.

"Still so high and mighty? For an outlaw's whore, you certainly do think much of yourself."

"How dare you!" she answered in a fury. "I've been a captive all this time, you imbecile!"

He took the seat next to hers and began to pour himself some wine.

"A captive? That's not what I've heard."

"And from whom have you heard this? Tell me, so I can rip out their lying tongues!"

"Such rage!" He laughed. "Can you play innocent with what my men saw tonight? You, consorting, of your own free will, with those outlaws in a church!"

"They brought me there with them. I'm too valuable to be left back in the forest. And if I was truly 'consorting,' as you say, how was I released so easily? Surely I would have fought to stay if I had wanted to."

"Enough lies! You begged my captain not to hurt them."

"They might be barbarians, but they're not animals. No one deserves to die like that."

"Well, they're dead now, for all your protestations."

She felt her heart skip with his words. Don't fail now, she thought, and steeled herself.

"If that saves me from having to go back to that flea pit of a camp, so be it. I haven't had a decent bath in ages."

She let that image settle itself in his mind as she leaned over to pour herself some wine. She could feel his eyes resting on the whiteness of her skin above the lacings of her gown.

"Let us toast, then: to my freedom. And to your success at ridding the county of outlaws."

"To your freedom, Marion." He raised his flagon of wine and then drank. "We should consider, though, how dearly that freedom has cost you."

"What cost?"

"Being taken by force into the woods, as you say. Being held captive by outlaws. Being forced to do God knows what. How much better it would be if you were under some kind of protection, where you would be safe from outlaws and all their kind."

"And where would I find such protection?"

"Under my own roof, of course. I think it's best for everyone while you remain such an object of desire for such, how shall I put it, undesirable elements."

As he leaned towards her, she could smell the wine on his breath. She stood up, stretching, and began to pace the length of the chamber. He took another drink.

"Do you wonder why it is, Sheriff, that the people of Nottingham deserted you for the outlaws?"

He sighed.

"It's not my fault I had to punish them for protecting him."

"Yes, but why did they follow him in the first place?"

"Why did you pretend he was your husband?"

She moved closer to him, perching on the table next to his chair.

"I did as I was told. It was Walter's plan, after all. But you should consider the question: what was it about him that they loved? Why did not one of them betray his location?"

"I don't know," he answered petulantly. "I take it you have a theory?"

"I do," she replied, her voice like honey. "You made him into a hero, you see. With every punishment, you drove them deeper into his arms. With every attack on you, his legend grew. They came into the camp telling stories of Robin Hood and his merry band of outlaws. And you became the tyrant."

"All I did was keep law and order."

"It's all a matter of perception, isn't it?"

She walked behind his chair, letting her hand trace along his shoulders.

"And now he's gone. How will you win them back?"

"Are you suggesting I let them return to Nottingham, without punishment?"

"You need to breathe life back into this place. It can't be done with the threat of the gallows."

She paused, letting him think.

"You'll need help," she continued.

His eyes flickered up to hers. He caught her wrist.

"Are you offering?"

"I ran this manor for years without a husband. I would say I know a thing or two about how to inspire loyalty."

"I agree." He began to run his thumb along the inside of her wrist.

"Together we can bring prosperity to Nottingham. We can make you beloved by the people."

She could feel his heart racing. She could also tell that the effect of the wine was beginning to take hold. Was this the moment? she thought.

Abruptly, he pulled her into his lap and pressed his mouth to hers. It was difficult not to put all her effort into fighting him off. But she knew she couldn't seem to be giving in easily. He would suspect if she didn't protest a little.

He stopped for a moment to turn his face towards the guard.

"Get out!"

As the guard closed the door behind him, her heart sang. She had done it.

She extricated herself from his lap, moving towards the bed. She sat down, and leaned back upon an elbow.

"Are you not going to offer me more wine, my lord?"

He moved towards her, hungrily, holding the half-filled pewter flagon. He handed it to her and watched her drink. As she brought it down from her lips, he leaned over her, covering her body with his. He began to nuzzle at her neck.

With a steady arm she brought the heavy flagon down upon his head. As if the spirit had gone out of him, he collapsed on top of her. She shoved him down onto the stone floor.

With a deep breath, she considered her situation. She had a quarter of an hour, at best, before he woke, and the only door was being watched by a man who, for all she knew, was perched listening at the keyhole. The only way out was from the windows.

She opened them up, bracing herself against the chilly night air. It was a lengthy drop to the courtyard below: without a ladder she would certainly injure herself. But there was a shallow ledge that led across the side of the house to the windows of her old chamber.

Climbing out, she kept her back flush to the wall and began to inch her way forward. It was agonizingly slow.

For one clenching moment, her foot slipped and she pitched slightly forward. She threw herself against the wall, hoping to find her footing. As she balanced herself, she said a silent prayer.

The windows to her chamber, thankfully, were not difficult to push open. Now safely inside, she could see that this room had been even more neglected than Walter's. Dirt and mouse droppings covered the floor. A stale smell pervaded the space. Crossing the room, she looked down at the space before the hearth. A pillow and wool blanket had been kicked into the nearby corner. She smiled at the memory of his form laid out across her hearthstones, the sounds of him turning in his sleep. Enough, she thought. You can't afford to linger.

She tried to muffle the sound as she descended the wooden staircase, as there might still be men in the hall. It was empty, though, save for a single sleeping hound. She stepped lightly across the length of the floor, but it woke, raising its head and turning its ears towards her.

Her goal, the door to the stables that stood hidden behind the floor-length tapestries, seemed miles away. She moved slowly, her steps silent, the hound's eyes continuing to follow her. It began to growl. There really was no other option, then: she ran. It jumped up and skittered along the floor, its claws snapping against the stones. She dove towards the tapestry, pushing it aside, and then grasped along the wall for the iron ring of the door. As the door swung open, she could feel the animal's breath on her legs. She gave a hard kick. It responded with a whimper. Feeling her way through the darkness, she shoved the door closed behind her.

Stopping for a moment to calm herself, she reflected on her next move. The stable door led directly to the inner courtyard of the manor house. The surrounding walls, however, were twice the height of a man and the gates would be well guarded. She would need to create a diversion to lead the soldiers away from the gates.

Once through the stables, she furtively moved into the shadowed edges of the courtyard and began to mull over the possible diversions she might employ.

A hand grasped her around the waist. Another tightened over her mouth.

"Not a word, Marion. Not if you want to live."

She breathed in a familiar scent of earth and sweat, layered over with beeswax and a whiff of smoke. She relaxed into his embrace. Thank you, Lord, she thought. You kept your promise.


	11. Sanctuary

She could feel his heart beating against her back, echoing the rhythm of her own. They stood, silent as stones, underneath the shadowed recesses of the overhanging eave, holding their breaths as an armed guard with a lantern passed but a few paces in front of them. The guard surveyed the courtyard and, finding nothing amiss, continued on his way back into the warmth of the manor house.

Behind her, Robin nodded his head in the direction of the eastern wall.

"Follow me," he whispered.

Silently they stalked through the darkness, coming at last to the wall and, to Marion's surprise, the length of knotted rope that lay down it. This must have been how he got in, she thought.

"Go on," he prodded her.

Grasping the rope firmly, she began to haul herself up the length of the wall.

"You there!" cried a voice from the darkness. "What do you think you're doing?"

Marion looked up to see one of the Sheriff's men – a young one, by the looks of him, gangly and smooth-cheeked – running up towards them, sword in hand. He pointed it directly at them. She could see his hand begin to tremble.

"You will identify yourselves," he said, adopting a firmer tone.

"You've caught yourself a fine trophy, boy." Robin smiled, turning his back to the guard in a gesture of nonchalance. His sword rang through the air as he pulled it from the scabbard. "I am Robin of the Hood, at your service." He gave a courtly bow.

"Robin of the Hood?" the guard replied, his voice quavering. "You're supposed to be dead. Burnt to a cinder."

"Apparently, I can walk through fire," he answered, his voice holding an edge of menace.

The guard gulped, unmoving.

"Come, we are your prisoners," Robin continued. "You must take us into your custody."

Robin turned the sword around in his hand, so that the hilt was now facing the guard, the blade pointed downward. The guard lowered his weapon, approaching his new captive.

Without warning, Robin smashed the hilt of the sword directly into the guard's nose. He followed with a savage left hook. The guard spun in place and then dropped like so much dead weight.

He turned back to face her.

"Come on, we don't have all night, Marion."

Scaling the wall was easier said than done, especially in skirts, but soon they had landed safely on the other side and darted down the crest of the hill. Waiting in a wooded alcove were Alan and Will, each holding the lead of a spare horse.

"Took you long enough," jibed Will.

"Yes, well, this one here doesn't know how to stay in one place," Robin replied, turning towards Marion. "She had me searching through that house for ages."

"And where would that have gotten me?" she teased. "Spending my wedding night with the Sheriff of Nottingham? Hardly proper company for a new wife."

"Speaking of the Sheriff, we need get out of here, quickly. It won't be long before they know what's happened."

As they mounted the horses, she turned to him.

"Out of curiosity, how did you manage to get out of that church? You do have many talents, but I know that walking through fire isn't among them."

They spurred their horses, heading into the wood.

"I was a little worried there for a moment," he answered. "But then Tuck remembered that there was a crypt, with a door in one of the side chapels. It was just us and the moldering bones until the fire died down a bit."

"How unromantic!" She smiled at him. "To be honest, I might keep with the first story: it can't help but do wonders for your reputation."

By the time they made it back to the forest camp, the pale reaches of dawn had lengthened along the horizon. Their horses were staggering, worn through from the long ride. Marion herself felt lightheaded: her thoughts lay scattered and her eyes were weighted as if from the pull of stones. She wanted her bed.

After leaving her horse with one of the boys, she headed towards the main cottage. Robin put an arm out to stop her before she went in.

"I had forgotten until now," he said.

"Forgotten what?" she replied, weary.

"I got you something."

"What?"

He nodded towards the door.

"Go on. Take a look."

She peered inside. She waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but soon she could make out a pale outline on top of the sleeping platform. She moved closer: it was a solid mattress, wrapped in strong ivory linen. She pushed down on it with her hand. It gave just enough for her to know that it was filled with sheep's wool and feathers.

She turned back to face him, as he stood in the doorframe.

"I'm not going to ask."

"You really shouldn't. Some things are better left unknown."

She wrapped her arms around him, leaning her head against his shoulder.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome," he whispered.

It felt good simply to stand there for a moment, propped up by his solidness. She loved the way that they fit together, like a well-made pair of joints. At that instant, she knew that despite everything – all the trials and the dangers she had faced since he turned up at her threshold – she wouldn't exchange a moment of all her time with him. Her life was made brighter simply by the fact that he was in it.

"Robin?"

"Hmmm?"

"Let's go to bed."

They both collapsed onto the mattress, their arms still wrapped around each other. She turned her head and looked over at him, as his eyelids fought to stay open.

"Good night, husband."

"Good night, wife."

Her own eyes closed and she sank into the beautiful oblivion.

o o o o o o o o o o

When she woke, the beams of light that earlier had streamed into the gaps within the woodwork were gone. The day had passed; it was now night.

She could hear – faintly – the sound of revelries at the camp fire: Alan at his lute, then a drum, a female voice. There was cheering as a song ended and more as another began.

Turning onto her side and stretching her legs, she jostled him, and his eyes fluttered open and broke through the haze of sleep. He gazed at her, disconcerted at first, but then with such a look of tenderness that she thought her heart would break.

He leaned over to kiss her softly on the corner of her mouth.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him back. She was playful, teasing, but soon he began to press her firmly to him and she answered with a similar intensity.

His hand moved to her thigh and in response she hooked it over his hip.

He rolled over onto her, their hands now fumbling with his shirt, her lacings.

She had thought quite a bit about this moment and had worried that she would feel anxious or unsure. But there was no awkwardness, no fear. There was only the solitary and overwhelming desire to be near him, to touch him, to feel him touch her.

She smiled. It had been many years, but this she remembered well.


	12. In the Darkness

The night lay still over them, the only sounds the whisper of winds through the trees and their own breathing. Robin let the feeling of quiet wash over him, like a stone worn round by the waves of the sea. Being a soldier for so long, living amongst thousands of men and beasts, he had yet to truly accustom himself to the emptiness of the forest's silence, to the secrets held within its deafening stillness.

He held her, pale and smooth, in the crook of his arm, her head resting in the hollow between his arm and shoulder. Her fingers were tracing over the scar along his ribs, feeling the raised, reddened indentation that interrupted the expanse of his skin.

"How did you get this?"

"It's a long story."

She turned her head up to his.

"Do you not want to tell me?"

"No, it's not that. It's only that it's a long story. And not a very interesting one."

"Tell me anyway."

He sighed before beginning.

"On our way back from the Holy Land, the king was captured by a prince he had angered while on crusade."

"I remember that. Men came from London and took a third of our livestock to help pay the ransom."

"That ransom was a long time in coming. We waited over a year while the king was held prisoner. From what I've heard he spent his time writing a lot of bad French poetry."

"What did you all do?"

"There wasn't much to do, besides forage for food, visit the local brothel, or get drunk."

"And which of these did you partake in?"

He smiled.

"Not to worry. The boys and I made a fair piece selling the game we caught, and they liked the tavern more than the brothel, anyway. It was cheaper.

"So one night we're in the tavern, losing all our day's earnings, feeling pretty miserable. It was coming up on winter, the first cold night of the season, and we just felt like we were never going to make it home. A bunch of soldiers came in, local ones, carrying on and howling to each other in German.

"None of us spoke two words of German, but the way we were feeling, it wouldn't have mattered where they were from. Will and Alan got in their faces, shoved them around a bit, until they started pushing back. One of them said something about the king – I just heard the name – and spit on the floor. Will punched him hard in the face and he fell to the ground.

"Well, that just made the rest of them angry. We all joined in, and soon enough, the whole tavern was brawling. It was crowded and dark, and I'd had a lot to drink, so I couldn't quite tell who I was fighting. I'd just grabbed someone around the neck when I felt this burn in my side. I touched it and my hand was covered in blood.

"I looked behind me, and I see Will fighting with the one he hit, both with daggers drawn. But it was Will's that had the blood on it."

"Wait, Will did this?"

"He felt pretty awful about it later. We both knew it was an accident."

"Still, it must have taken months to heal properly."

"Just in time for the king's ransom to arrive, and we to be on our way. I have tried to avoid taverns since, though."

She turned onto her stomach, propping herself up on her elbows.

"Are you glad you went? On the crusade?"

"It's been my fortune in life to be a soldier. I've seen things I probably shouldn't have; I've done things I know I shouldn't have. But that's what soldiers do: they follow and obey, even if it means their own deaths.

"As for the crusade, the whole enterprise is folly. Little boys, squabbling over imaginary desert kingdoms, playing God with their armies, and caring not a whit for the money and the lives they lose as they do it. I hope the Saracens take it all back."

"But surely the Holy Land must be made safe, for Christian pilgrims."

"It will never be safe, not while men are men. Not until they learn that fire cannot be cured with fire."

"You make it sound so contemptible. You saw nothing there worth the visit?"

He paused, considering her question.

"I remember one night, soon after we had taken Acre. I sat on the seawall and watched the moon drift over the green depths of the ocean. It was so still, so beautiful, I could have sat there until the end of the world."

"But you came back."

"I did. And I found something I hadn't expected."

"What's that?"

He turned, cupping the side of her face with his hand.

"A miracle."

She laughed.

"I'd hardly call it that. People get married every day."

"That's not what I meant. I've given up trying to understand why God put you in my path, why you even gave me a second's glance. All I know is that before you I was dead inside, numb to the world. Now…well, now I feel like a tree come to life after a long winter, green and tender."

"Green and tender," she repeated, whispering.

She leaned over him, their faces nearly touching.

"You're not alone in that feeling."

She kissed him, long and deep, until their breaths came short and the blood raced through their veins, their bodies covered only by the thick canopy of darkness.

o o o o o o o o o o

Alone in a deserted glade, not far from them, sat the deposed boy king, the new lord and master of nothing but the trees and stones.

He tried to comprehend how it had come to this, how he had been abandoned, betrayed by those who had promised him their obedience.

He knew who was to blame, however. The outlaws had come and ruined everything. They lured his boys away with lies and false promises. They were wolves snatching at his flock, one by one.

If only the Sheriff had been able to catch them all, to destroy them inside the church. He had told them exactly where to be, and yet, like most adults, they were too simpleminded to actually finish what they had started.

When the outlaws had returned, when they had begun to dance and sing, clearly making a mockery of him, he knew what he had to do. He ran the risk of destroying his own camp, once the Sheriff knew where they were, but it would be worth it to finally rid himself of the intruders. The boys would soon come back, tails between their legs, begging his forgiveness for what they had done. And he would smile.


	13. The Private Conversations of Men

It had come to be mid-day by the time Robin and John put the finishing touches on the roof structure of the new cottage and began to lay the thatch down as covering. Robin let John take the lead in such matters: his parents had been crofters in the Lowlands and he had experience in building and the like.

They worked, as men do, in quiet, passing tools between them with a minimum of conversation. Only once they had climbed down off the roof, taking a bit of mead to cool down, did John turn to him, as if he had been waiting for the right moment to speak.

"Can I ask ye something, Robin?"

"What is it?" he replied, leaning in the cool shade of the cottage.

"Well, ah…" John stammered.

"Out with it, man."

"How did ye…well, how did ye know ye wanted to get married?"

Robin gave a half-suppressed laugh.

"I just knew, that's all."

"Aye, but…was there something about her?"

Robin sighed. He knew John was finding this just as uncomfortable as he was.

As he opened his mouth to reply, he found that he couldn't fathom what to say. _Was there something about her?_ Saints in heaven, Marion was a revelation. And not just in his bed, although that was the first thing that came into his mind. He caught flashes of her in his thoughts: her hands, strong and smooth, wrapped tight around a carving knife as she dressed a hare; her laugh, clear as a church bell on a spring morning; the look on her face when she came to tell him they had been ordered to share her chamber, outraged yet somehow slightly amused.

He cleared his throat.

"Is this about Joanna?"

John turned away from him, his face turning red with embarrassment.

"I like her, Robin, I do. More than any other girl…woman…I've known. I just want to know if that means something."

"I think it means whatever you want it to mean."

"How's that?"

"Not everything in life comes with a sign from God. If you can imagine being with her for the rest of your days, and in that imagining, it seems good and right, then you'll know what to do."

John nodded in understanding.

"Thank ye."

"And John…"

"Aye?"

"Talk to her mother first. That always helps."

"Right."

They stood for a while, both men lost in their thoughts.

"D'ye ever think about how we got here?"

"I take it you don't mean 'on horses'?"

John pounded him lightly on the chest.

"No, it's just, there were so many things that had to happen. If we hadn't come across that ambush, if we hadn't all been put in the stocks, if I hadn't doubted that ye were an honest man with your game of luck."

Robin paused, taking a breath.

"Right, John, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

"Aye?"

He tried to say it quickly, so it would be over sooner.

"I always took out the pea before I started moving the cups around. Just never on the first time someone came to the table."

"And why's that?"

"Even if they won, I could always get them to double their chances."

John nodded.

"Good to know."

Robin didn't even see the punch before it landed on his jaw. There was a ringing sound, a brilliant flash of pain, and then the world seemed to tilt as he hit the ground.

"Thanks for the advice, though," John said cheerily, whistling as he walked away.


	14. Out of the Flames

She was running. Crashing through the leaves, the brush. Nearly falling as her foot caught an exposed tree root. She was breathless, her lungs tight with need. Her ribs seized and stung.

There was something following her, snatching through the darkness. She couldn't see it, didn't dare turn around. But it was close. She felt the warmth of its breath, its savage jaws. It seemed to pulse, red and hungry, in the night air.

In a few short moments, it would be upon her.

Time seemed to slow. Her feet faltered, her legs moved as if made of stone. She closed her eyes, and waited for the inevitable end.

Gasping, she sat up, her eyes now searching through the dim fabric of the space.

She felt overheated and damp; something in the room was glowing. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, feeling the solidness under her feet. Moving towards the door and the chilly early morning air beyond, she realized their indoor fire had been left burning. The door she left open slightly, in the hope that it might help cool the air inside.

She got back into bed, taking a moment to look at him: his face was softened and relaxed as it only was when he was asleep. He looked younger, almost boyish. She noted the flowering bruise on his jaw, which had settled into a yellow-ringed purple stain.

She nudged him with her foot.

"Mmmmm?"

"Robin?"

"Mmmmm?"

"You did say you would properly bank the fire before we went to sleep…"

"Mmmmm. I did say… I was going to… But then we started… I forgot."

"Lucky we didn't burn to death in our bed."

He threw his arms around her, his eyes still shut tight.

"I would have saved you. Carried you from the raging flames."

"Not if you refuse to wake. Come, the sun's almost up."

His eyes opened, fluttering with sleep, but his arms drew tighter around her. She threw him a look, one he was beginning to know well.

"What kind of wife are you, to refuse my marital embraces?" he growled in mock outrage.

"A better one than you know, I think," she replied, kissing him.

"Undoubtedly."

He grinned, finding a lovely spot to rest his lips, right between her earlobe and jawline.

After a moment, however, his attentiveness was interrupted. He stopped, cocking his ear towards the open door.

"We did put all the horses up for the night, didn't we? I can't remember."

"I watched some of the boys do it, right before we went to bed."

She looked at him with concern, though his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.

"What is it?"

Now she could hear something, but the sound was rough and unclear.

He got to his feet and threw his shirt on, tossing her shift over to where she sat.

"Marion, I need you to get dressed. And then I need you to go into the forest, as far away from this camp as possible. Can you do that?"

"Why?"

The moment she asked, she realized she didn't need an answer. Horses' hooves, dozens of them, were thundering somewhere nearby. She could even hear the metal scrapings of armor.

Hastily putting on his boots and then his sword belt, he turned towards her.

"I know you never listen to a word I say, so could you at least do it for the women and children you're going to find and bring into the forest with you?"

He kissed her, roughly and all too briefly, and then he was gone.

She could feel the panic begin to rise up in her chest, growing with the strength of the sounds of the army of men coming closer towards them. She pushed it away and gathered herself.

Outside, the chaos was forming. Confused and sleepy faces poked out of doors while others milled around the central space, unsure of what to do or where to go.

"Men to arms!" she could hear Robin bellow from the other side of the camp. "Men to arms!"

"Women and children with me!" she echoed, her voice clear and high over the breaking daylight.

It took several more cries before the groups had properly formed: the men hastily armed, now finding defensive positions around the camp; the women and children, some barely dressed, moving like a frightened herd into the safety of the trees.

But the soldiers had come, stirring like metal insects through the tree line.

They caught the tail end of the line of women, striking with their swords, not even glancing behind them as they rode on. One of the women fell, her hands raised high above her head as she went to earth, looking, or so it seemed to Marion, like a graceful dancer moving to unheard music. She heard a scream, off to her right, and saw that it came from Joanna.

Quickly, the fallen woman was gathered up and brought further into the woods, now a relative place of safety. Marion could now see that it was Joanna's mother, as the girl went to her side, grasping her hand, trying to assess what was wrong.

Blood welled from the woman's side, seeping into her clothes, and from the corner of her mouth. Her breath was ragged. There was little they could do. Marion put both her hands on the girl's shoulders as she shuddered with tears and screams.

Hearing the tumult of combat back towards the camp, she raised her head. Her only thought was of him.

She left the women behind and raced back to the melee, hoping to find a discarded weapon with which to arm herself. Quickly perching herself behind an overturned table, she surveyed the disorder before her.

Many of the riders had dismounted, and now were in the process of fending off attackers, though the riders, she could see, were clearly better armed. Will and Alan were fighting back to back, making sure their opponents couldn't tell where to strike next. Finally, her eyes found him, watching as he took on three of the Sheriff's men, feeling the panic in her heart begin to solidify.

And then, in an instant, it was over. One of the men had disarmed him, sending his sword flailing to the ground. But they didn't move to attack. His hands were held behind him – she saw him struggle in their grasp – but then they stood still, waiting.

She didn't know what to do. He didn't seem to be in immediate danger – otherwise she would have gone to his aid, despite the risk to herself – but it seemed cowardly to simply wait, hidden and protected, to see what they might do to him. She had just made up her mind to move, when she felt a hand go around her wrist.

"Don't ye be doing anything foolish, Lady."

It was John, crouched next to her, whose broad hand now easily encircled hers.

"But they have him prisoner…" she quietly sputtered.

"Then rushing in is suicide, not a rescue. Let us wait and see what happens."

One of the armored riders now approached the circle of men holding Robin. He removed his helmet, and Marion realized with an intake of breath that it was the Sheriff. He paced in front of Robin, not looking at him, not saying a word.

"Is it the manner of the Sheriff of Nottingham to have his men do his fighting for him?" Robin asked scornfully.

The Sheriff nodded his head towards one of the men, who struck Robin powerfully in the side. Robin bellowed in pain, but did not fall.

"I see that it is," he added, through gritted teeth.

"Quiet!" the Sheriff hissed, finally acknowledging Robin. He sidled towards him and, with a gloved fist, hit him in the cheek.

His head now hanging towards the ground, Robin looked up at the Sheriff, and began to laugh.

"You'll have to do better than that."

Even from this distance, Marion could see the unbridled fury in the Sheriff's features. She heard the shriek of metal as he pulled his sword out into the open and her heartbeat seemed to slow when she realized what was about to happen.

But the Sheriff did not point the blade at Robin. Instead he pointed it downwards, holding it by the grip, and struck Robin neatly across the top of the head with the pommel. Robin collapsed, now being held up only by the soldiers grasping his arms.

"Finally, some quiet," the Sheriff muttered. "Get him tied up and ready to go, will you?"

He looked around him, at the camp buildings and structures they had spent so long constructing.

"Burn it all down."

Marion saw a quick scampering out of the corner of her eye. She recognized the face and figure and the threadbare clothes of the young man who had been the leader of the village boys. It had been several months, though, and if it was possible, he looked even gaunter. He held a torch in his hand and Marion felt a chill sweep over her heart. It was as if he had simply been waiting for the order.

The Sheriff's men were binding Robin, trying to get him atop a horse. They seemed little interested in the strange tableau that was being created before them.

The young man – David, she corrected herself, remembering his name – began to sing, rather incomprehensibly. He pivoted upon each foot, creating a jerking dance that matched the rhythms of his song. And as he moved around the camp, he put each of the dwellings to the torch.

It was his eyes, though, that caught her. Nothing could peer into them and equally nothing saw out. In them she recognized the haze of madness.

The Sheriff's men were now leaving. Even the ones occupied with other opponents had simply gone back to their horses and departed with the others. The only one left in their midst was David, who was laughing to himself as the flames rose higher and higher into the morning sky.

She heard a striking sound and watched as his face turned to incomprehension. He looked down at the arrow protruding from his chest. He smiled joyfully, like a child, and then fell to the ground. The torch sputtered impotently by his side.

Will and Alan emerged from the far side of the camp. Will still had his bow out and Alan was grasping at a wound on his upper arm.

"I don't understand," she cried, emerging from her hiding spot. "What were they doing?"

"That was a raiding party, Marion," Will replied. "Not an army. They didn't have orders to kill."

"So how are we going to get him back?" Her voice broke with emotion.

They were silent.

"We need to get to Nottingham before something happens!"

"They're not going to Nottingham," answered Alan.

"And how do you know that? Do you read men's thoughts now, Alan A'Dale?"

He touched her arm, but she angrily shook him off. He sighed.

"If 'twere just for the Sheriff, he would have killed Robin here. But there must be something else, something bigger planned. My guess? They're taking him to London."


	15. The March

He watched the crack in the wheel's spoke rotate around once, twice, three times, again and again, until it was all he could see in the world. From his viewpoint on the floor of the wagon, he counted its rotations from earth to sky and back to earth. He lost track somewhere past five thousand.

Some time back he had taken a moment from counting to assess his injuries. Before locking him up in the back of the wagon, they had taken turns on him, not stopping even after he had fallen to the ground. His right eye had crusted over from the blood, his lower lip had been badly split, and from the feel of his chest when he took a breath, it was likely he had one or two broken ribs. There would undoubtedly be countless bruises later on, their tell-tale mark rising to the surface, dark and tender.

His mouth burned with thirst. They had not given him anything to drink since the day before.

He tried not to think about the future, where they were going, what would happen to him once they got there. But thoughts intruded, as they always do, circling through his mind like flies onto a dying animal. He thought of his father, of the look on his face before the blade descended. He saw the faces of his own victims, the lambs he had been ordered to slaughter, felt again the cold emptiness of the hell he had inhabited after he followed that order.

He knew, though, that conjuring up the ghosts of his past would do him no good. So from the bricks of his memories he tried to create an edifice in which he could take shelter. The solace of friendship, the roar of the bonfire, the luxury of a full stomach. But for the keystone he chose carefully: it would have to serve him well. Soon he was there, deep within his mind, laughing with her, surrounded by the dark currents of the stream. They had gone there that night, their first as husband and wife, with only the sky's blanket of stars for company. They had bathed under the moonlight, seeing each other anew, without armor or defenses. Her hair was like a river in his hands, the skin of her thighs the color of fresh cream. They reveled in each other, touching and kissing as if they were the sole witnesses to the creation of the world. He had found it, and now his only wish was to dwell inside the memory forever, until the moment came when he would draw his last breath.

He closed his eyes. Perhaps he slept.

They had been on the move for days, stopping only at dusk, beginning again at daybreak. No one spoke to him. On the fourth day, he could feel his grasp on the world begin to slip, his mind no longer working in the methodical and precise way it had before. He began to wonder if he was actually dead. Travelling on this interminable march, was he in fact already in Hell?

He tried to banish it all. He began to count again. Once, twice. Round and round. Over and over again.


	16. Old Friends and New

The streets were a cacophony of sound. Hawkers, merchants, pilgrims, beggars: all jostled around her, their cries and their smells assailing her senses and sending her thoughts into scattered confusion. She had yet to fully accustom herself to it all.

Perhaps London itself was too much for her. She had not lived her whole life in the country – and Nottingham was a fairly large town – but she had never imagined so many people could live together in a place such as this. When they had arrived, looking down upon it from the northern rise, it had seemed almost monstrous, like an overgrown anthill, teeming with life and movement.

At least she was unknown here; it made it easier on them all to know she was not likely to be recognized. For Alan, Will, and John, the danger was greater. The city was awash in old soldiers, many from Richard's campaigns, and she knew that wages were not so high that some of them could afford to turn their backs on the promise of a bounty, easy money for those with knowledge of an outlaw's location.

They consequently restricted their movements to nighttime, and it was up to Marion to find them provisions during the daylight hours. That afternoon, she had managed to find a purveyor of meatpies whose wares seemed at least slightly edible, paying far too much in the process, and was making her way back through the crowded narrow streets to their inn. It was shabby and nondescript, excellent characteristics for people looking to stay unnoticed.

Once inside, she headed towards the stairs, her arms aching from the weight of the pies and the jugs of beer she had purchased along the way.

"A message for you, ma'am!" It was the elderly innkeeper, a kindly man with grey rheumy eyes.

"A message? From who?"

She put down her burden, rubbing her tired muscles.

"Didn't give his name. Simply said…" He looked up, as if trying to remember the exact words. "He said, 'Tell the lady she has a friend who might be able to help her. Come to the Sign of the Red Stag' – I know that place, ma'am, it's not but a short skip from here – 'the Sign of the Red Stag tonight after sunset.' Sounds very mysterious."

"Thank you." She handed him a silver penny. "For your trouble."

He beamed at her.

"You're welcome, ma'am."

As she walked up the stairs, she began to consider the implications of the message. Someone – ally or enemy, she couldn't tell at this point – knew she was here and knew what she was trying to do. This was worrisome.

It was only their third day in the city: how could anyone have found out their plans so quickly?

Not that they even had solid plans, that is. At first, they had simply thought to rescue Robin on the road and had quickly caught up with the Sheriff's caravan on its way south. But there were too many men too well-armed, and their strategy blew away like smoke into the wind. They quietly followed the caravan after that, catching glimpses of Robin as the party plodded along, heedless of the slow pace. At that point, it was clear where they were headed – they were on the London road, Alan's guess having been proven sound – and it was decided that the better strategy lay in moving ahead of the caravan and waiting for its arrival, gathering more information where they could, and from there determining what they would do.

Three days in London had given them nothing, though, and the Sheriff and his men, along with their prisoner, would be here within a day or two. They needed to formulate something, and quickly.

The three men stood abruptly when she entered their room. She knew they were anxious and tired of being cooped up inside. Above all, they were probably hungry.

"Your supper, gentlemen."

She laid out everything on the floor, as there was no table. They dug in, making short work of the pies.

"Thank ye kindly, Marion," said John, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

"So did you all find out anything last night?" she asked, once they had finished.

"We did manage to track down Harry," replied Will.

"And what did he say?"

"Well, we were a bit worried he wouldn't remember us – the Lionheart's army was very big, after all – but straight away he claps hands on us like we're old friends. It didn't hurt that we were the ones keeping him full of drink.

"So we ask what he's been doing, since he returned, as if we didn't know already, and he tells us this story about how his cousin helped him find a place working at the Tower."

"And we're sure that's where they'll take him?"

"That's where royal prisoners go, Marion. If we're right – and we've not been wrong yet – that's where the Sheriff will move him soon as they get here."

"Your friend, he's heard word of a new prisoner?"

"He's heard nothing. Mind you, this was after many more cups of ale, so it was difficult to understand exactly what he was saying."

"Can you find out when he learns something?"

"We'll see him again, later tonight." Will leaned back, putting his hands behind his head. "Just a bunch of old soldiers, reminiscing over past campaigns."

"Speaking of tonight…" She told them about the message, and her reservations about meeting the sender.

"It could be useful," said Alan. "After all, we don't have many other options."

John and Will nodded, though Marion's brow was knotted with worry.

"Let's take our weapons, though, to be safe," he added.

Several hours later, once the day was gone, they threaded their way through the streets. Their eyes watched the shadows for signs of danger. They found the tavern easily, its swaying signboard decorated with a picture of the animal in question, though the red looked ominously blood-colored in the moonlight. Inside, it was fairly empty, with only a few customers, all of them seemingly more interested in their drinks or companions to notice their arrival.

The tavern owner saw them, though.

"Ye'll be wantin' the back room, I reckon." He indicated the direction with his head.

At the door, she stopped. She looked at all three of their faces: their features were tight with concern and determination. Each of them laid hands on his weapon in readiness.

She stepped cautiously into the room. A man stood at the fireplace, absentmindedly poking at the coals with an iron. Even with his back to her, she could see he was dressed expensively: a fur-lined cloak, fine leather boots. It was not a look of ostentation, but of refinement and taste.

"My apologies for the secrecy, milady. But one can never be too careful these days."

He turned towards her, her eyes taking in his hawk-like features and curling grey hair.

"First, however, let me introduce myself properly," he said, bowing courteously. "My name is William Marshal."


	17. Loyalties

A quiet pervaded the room, poised to do battle with the billowing sense of unease already at hand.

She lowered her head as courtesy demanded, yet her eyes never left him.

"My lord."

Her veins felt like ice.

"Please, sit."

He indicated a rough-hewn table and chairs, off to her right. She made no movement.

"Well then, let us at least invite your companions inside. Then we may continue this conversation in some degree of privacy."

She motioned for the three men to come into the room. The jagged sound of wood against wood as the door shut made her flinch.

"You may be wondering why I sought you out," the Marshal began.

"Ye could say that," replied John, standing half-hidden by darkness. His hand remained on his short-sword.

"You should know that I mean you no harm," the Marshal answered, his voice taking on a tone of calm.

"And how would we know that? With all respect, my lord," said Marion.

"Clearly, I knew where you were. I could have had you all arrested the day you arrived, if I had so chosen."

"Perhaps you were waiting. Until you had some sort of advantage," she replied.

He laughed quietly, as if to a private joke.

"Let us lay aside the question of my intent. The real question remains: will you trust me enough to accept my assistance?"

"Would you, in our position? You're the king's closest counselor."

He walked over to the table and took a seat in one of the nearest chairs. His face seemed to relax as he languidly stretched his legs in front of him.

"A man can have many loyalties. Some are older than others."

"Are you saying that you are no longer loyal to King John?"

"What I am saying, milady, is that I often have to serve the king in ways he may not understand. Sometimes in ways he may not even approve."

"And this is why you'll help us? Simply to thwart the will of the king?" cried Will.

"You misunderstand. I do it _for_ his sake. And my own." He looked at Marion, his piercing green eyes loosening. "And for an old friend, who died too soon."

He stood, planting both palms on the table.

"Plainly put, will you take what I am offering?"

She gazed behind her at the three men: in their eyes, they were offering the responsibility to her, putting the decision fully into her hands. She looked over at the Marshal, at the heavy weight that seemed to crowd his shoulders, the jeweled rings on his fingers bespeaking his offices. In her heart, she heard his silent wish.

"We accept."

"Excellent." He clapped, then began to rub his hands together, as if for warmth. "First, let me tell you what I know. Then we may discuss how to proceed." Yet again, he indicated the seats around the table. This time, they took them.

"We – and by that I mean the Crown – have known about your activities in Sherwood for some time. Much of the information came from the Sheriff and some, that is to say better, came directly from my own sources."

"Wait," Marion interrupted, "You know everything? Even about my capture and escape?"

"Of course. Naturally, the Sheriff sent us a more self-flattering depiction of the incident." He leaned over towards her. "His description of you as 'a murderous harpy hell-bent on revenge' hardly does you justice.

"After that point, the king took it upon himself to end the flaunting of his own pronouncements, and directed the Sheriff to bring Robin back to London in chains. He wants to end the misrule of Robin of the Hood once and for all.

"I know that you've made contact with one of the jailers at the Tower. I advise you all to cultivate him, to play to his loyalty. He will undoubtedly be of great use."

"I don't understand," said Alan, leaning across the table. "If you know all this, if you've got all this power, why don't you just let Robin out? Why do you need us?"

The Marshal opened his mouth to speak, but Will was quicker.

"Because he can't be seen to be doing anything, isn't that right? It might compromise his place."

The Marshal sighed.

"Slightly unfair, but true. Any hint of disloyalty around the king and I will be in no position to help you at all."

"Which is why we've got to do the work, Alan," Marion said.

"Not all of it," the Marshal replied. "As I've said, you need to keep close to the jailer. Remind him of your past exploits. Tell him what has happened to you since. Buy his loyalty if needs be." He took out a purse, letting it fall to the table with a heavy metallic clash. "But above all, make sure that he keeps Robin away from the other prisoners and jailers. No prying eyes.

"I'll do my best to convince the king to keep the execution private, that is, inside the Tower. I'll tell him it's bad politics to execute a folk hero in public."

"Why are we talking of an execution at all?" Marion asked. "Aren't we planning on finding Robin before that point?"

"There needs to be an execution," said the Marshal. "The king has demanded it. The question is: whose will it be?"


	18. The Place of Forgetting

Underground it stank of wet and rot, as the shivery November damp trickled into the oubliette. He felt the cold within him, echoing in his flesh.

They had left him there, that morning, though whether it was day or night now, he couldn't tell. Someone had set aside some food – a chunk of oaty bread, thin gruel – and he tried to eat, despite the biting pain in his side. There was no pleasure in the eating, though: his stomach still felt tight and irritable. He lay down on the dirty straw and tried to sleep.

He followed someone in the miasma of his half-remembered dreams. A cry, a fleeing shadow. And then nothing, only a sensation of loss, a consuming ache whose source he could not recollect. He woke to the ever-present day, the stripes of torch-light that fell upon him indifferent to the hour.

He was surprised not to have seen anyone yet. From the sound of it, no one was even nearby.

A mouse scurried across the stone floor, nibbling on the remnants of his bread.

He thought of Marion, of Alan and Will, of John. He realized that he could not even be sure they were still alive, although some part of him was certain he would know if they were not. They undoubtedly would have tried to find him, followed the traces of his path. He prayed to all the saints above that they would give up now and leave him to this place of forgetting. He knew there would be no escape.

He heard a door shut and a whistle. The melody was from a rude tavern ditty, one he had not heard in many years.

A craggy face appeared behind the iron-barred ceiling, accompanied by a shock of dirty blond hair and a look of intense amusement.

"Good e'en to ye, Robin!"

He squinted in the firelight, standing to get a better look. His knees threatened to buckle.

"Do we know each other?" he asked weakly.

"I ken it's been a while since we clapped eyes on one another, but don't tell me ye's forgotten ole Harry!"

A stab of memory. One of the pikemen from Richard's army. He remembered the man's prodigious appetite and his unfortunate propensity to return again and again to Robin's table, despite his continual bad luck and the loss of his wages.

"What are you doing here?"

"What a kind greeting!" He hiccupped: the sound reverberated across the walls. "Not a 'How are ye, Harry? So fine to see ye after so long!' Just 'What are ye doin' here?'"

The words came out slightly slurred. Was the man drunk? Robin thought.

"I'm sorry, Harry. It's just that, well, I'm surprised to see you here, is all."

"Ye and me both! Imagine, Robin Longstride, of the king's archers, clapped in the Tower. I just about chucked out me ale to hear of it!"

"It's a long story, you see…"

"Oh, I knows the story. A political prisoner, ye are. Fightin' for the common man, for all us common soldiers, against the greedy land-ownin' scum. But they'll get what's comin' to 'em, won't they?" The man seemed to wink at him, although it came across as more of a twitch. "We just need to stick to the plan, eh?"

"Wait, what plan?"

But he had already begun to stumble away, singing a partial refrain.

"_There once was a young maid from Ipswich  
__Who had time and nothing to do  
__In the alley behind the old butcher's…"_

The verses and the footsteps faded away into the distance.

Robin felt the need to sit down. The stones were as cold as they had been when he fell asleep; it was unlikely he was still dreaming.

"What plan?" he whispered to no one in particular.


	19. A Guest of the Marshal

She rubbed her hands over her goosebumped arms – the open seat in the garderobe was letting in a rush of cold wind – and continued to bind her chest tightly with the linen band. She gave one last exhalation and pulled forcefully, knotting the ends together.

Next came the leggings and the undertunic. Both were meant for someone larger than her, but this was the best they could do under the circumstances. The grey outer tunic was dirty, stiff, and full of holes and as she pulled it over her head she tried to brush away most of the grime. Her hair she plaited into a thick band and wrapped it into a flat circular coil at the base of her neck. The coif of the chainmail would cover it, she knew, but she felt better knowing it was securely tied back. She would need help with the rest of the mail: beyond just the weight, the lacings were in places far too difficult to reach oneself.

The surcoat would be last, emblazoned with the king's insignia, granting the wearer full rights of entry and access, but she would wait until the final moment to don it.

The men had all opposed this – the Marshal included – but she had told them that she would be damned to simply sit and wait. They saw the look in her eyes and their protests were withdrawn, but she still knew they were troubled with the thought of a woman accompanying them on such a task. Her neck would stretch just as easily as their own if they were uncovered.

Fully dressed, she made her way back down the darkened hallway to the solar, where they were all waiting. It was clear she had interrupted a conversation. The Marshal looked up from where he sat, hands on his knees.

"I must admit, milady, it is disconcerting to see you dressed as a common soldier."

"Then let's hope for your sake, sir, that I don't have to do it for very long," she replied. "Will someone help me with the armor?"

Alan was nearest; he picked up the hauberk from where it sat on a long wooden bench and held it above her so she could put her arms in.

"You're sure he's asleep?" Will asked the Marshal.

"He had a great deal of wine. He had to be taken upstairs."

Marion felt the weight of the mail press down upon her shoulders. Alan began lacing up the back.

"And he's alone?"

"My servants have all gone to bed. His men were dismissed and told to travel home. I watched them leave at mid-day. He seemed unsuspecting, if that's what you're wondering. After all, it's not every day you get an invitation to sojourn at the Marshal's residence until Christmastide."

"Bloody bastard, he must think this is his reward," muttered John.

Alan moved on to the coif, attaching the two sides around her neck. He squinted, working methodically.

The Marshal stood and walked towards the door.

"His is the first chamber on the right. Your horses have been left right outside the kitchen. It shouldn't take you that long to be on your way."

He turned, looking at each of them.

"You know that if you are caught, I have to disavow any knowledge of you."

Will looked as if he was about to say something particularly nasty.

"We know," she answered. "Thank you for all your help."

"Good luck," he said, and he slipped silently behind the door.

Quiet descended. It was now time.

They waited a few moments – long enough for the Marshal to return to his bedchamber and the lights upstairs to be put out – and then looked at each other expectantly.

Each taking a candle, they extinguished all the other lights in the solar and made their way into the hallway. Their leather shoes shuffled softly on the stone floor, but the wooden stairs began to emit small shrieks under their weight. She cringed with every sound.

The door, though, gave them no resistance. Its hinges had been recently oiled.

She could hear him snoring, saw the faint silhouette of his body in the bed. Despite his inebriation, he seemed to sense something in the room with him. His eyes fluttered drowsily.

"Whaaa…?"

There was a small smack as the hilt of Alan's dagger came down upon the crown of his head, which then flopped helplessly over.

They bundled him up, tying his wrists together and a gag across his mouth. Each taking a part they carried him back down the stairs, through the hallway, and into the kitchen. As they were close to the door, his feet brushed by a set of hanging copper pots, setting off a chorus of deep metallic tones. A kitchen maid lifted up a small bedraggled head from her hearth bed, her eyes full of alarm and confusion. John saw her, and smiled as he put his finger to his lips. She lay back down.

After securing their captive to one of the horses, they made quietly for the main thoroughfare. There were a few people out, even at the late hour. They tried not to make eye contact.

The ride was not long, but once he seemed to wake up, making faint moaning noises. Will had to hit him in the side of the face. Halting after the interruption, they took a moment to pull on their royal surcoats.

Now removed from the rabbit warren of streets, they looked up at the hulking construction in their path. The Tower gleamed like a sleek animal in the moonlight.


	20. A Guest of the King

As they approached the Tower's eastern gate, Marion eyed the soldiers tasked with the first watch of the night. One stamped his feet and blew into his hands, warming them with his breath, while the other, older than his companion and seemingly oblivious to the evening's chill, leaned his head against the stone wall, his eyes slipping closed. Her heart clutched and pounded within her ribcage.

Their pace was calm and languid as they drew near. Anything else might invite suspicion.

"What's this?"

The soldier's voice echoed in the air like a challenge.

"Just bringing in a prisoner." They had decided that Alan would be the one to speak: Marion, for obvious reasons, could not, and Will and John's accents might raise questions they didn't want to answer.

"What prisoner? I haven't heard anything about a prisoner." The soldier turned to his fellow-in-arms. "Culpepper, have you heard anything about a prisoner?"

The younger soldier, now pretending to ignore the cold, shrugged.

"Nothing, sir."

The first soldier turned back to Alan, his gaze defiant.

"We haven't heard anything about a prisoner."

"Well, you wouldn't have yet, would you?" answered Alan. "We didn't know about it 'till our commander tells us to take this man into our custody and escort him back to the Tower jailers." He leaned down towards the soldier conspiratorially. "Picked him up for false coining," he said in a low voice. "Clearly didn't remember that it's a hanging offense."

The soldier stared at their unconscious prisoner, now leaning open-mouthed across the neck of his horse, his hands tied firmly around it. His gaze turned back to Alan.

"We're not supposed to let anyone in without permission from inside." His head jerked back towards the looming tower visible behind the gate.

"Look," said Alan, with a resigned sigh, "We can stand here all night, talking about this, and freezing our cocks off in the process, or you can just let us in to deliver our prisoner and we'll be gone sooner than you know. And I can't imagine they'd be happy with the thought of anyone keeping him from going into custody as soon as was possible."

For a moment, the soldier's thoughts seemed to wheel into motion behind his eyes. His mouth turned to a hard grimace.

"Take him in."

They dismounted their horses and moved to untie their prisoner's hands. John and Will pulled him down from his horse, and supporting him with an arm under each armpit, began to carry him inside the gate and across the green.

On the southern side of the tower, they found the entrance: a wooden staircase that led to an iron-bolted door on the floor above. As they approached the top of the stairs, a shadowy figured emerged, half inside the doorframe, beckoning them closer.

"Good timing, Harry," said Alan, grasping the man by the shoulder.

"Timing? Phhtt! I've been watchin' that gate since sundown." He looked down at the man leaning between Will and John. "Is that him?"

"That's him."

"Let's go, then."

He led them through darkened chambers, their shadows throwing ghostly images upon the rough stone walls. She could hear above them the distant sounds of music and laughter. He must have seen her look up towards the ceiling.

"Banqueting chamber's right above us. The king, queen mother, all the court." He grinned at her. He was missing two bottom teeth. "Lucky for us, they won't hear a thing."

They followed him to a narrow spiral staircase cut deep into the wall. It was a tight fit going down, forcing Will and John to simply carry their prisoner squeezed in between them.

The staircase let out into a larger hallway. Shadowed archways lined both sides, but they continued to the end, where Harry pulled out a set of iron keys, unfastening the heavy door in front of them. Inside the chamber, Marion could make out six sets of iron bars, set into the floor. She realized with a start that the ground receded underneath each one.

"Longstride, you've got visitors!"

For a moment her heart seemed to still. Consumed in the planning and the thoughts of danger, she had almost forgotten that he was here, that she would look upon him again.

Harry had unlocked one of the sets of bars and thrown it back, revealing the confined opening beneath. He was about to take hold of a nearby ladder, but she grasped it from his hands, throwing it into the hollow space and descending, two rungs at a time.

He began to emerge, faintly, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. An eye was swollen over, gashed and ripe, and dried blood was matted against the side of his head. There was a rasp in his breath as he sat leaning against the cold stone wall. He saw her and gave the faintest of smiles.

"Am I dead now, my love?"

She took his hand and kissed him softly on the forehead.

"Not dead. Not if I have anything to say about it."

He looked up at her, comprehension dawning on his features.

"Oh, Marion, you shouldn't have come. Although I am delighted to see you."

She brushed back his hair from his brow, holding his head in her hands.

"Shhhh…" she murmured. "We'll be gone from this place soon enough. Before then, though, I need you to take off your clothes."

He eyed her with a hint of mischief.

"I hardly think this is the time."

"Just be quiet and give me your clothes."

She helped him with his shirt, her chest constricting when she saw the spray of bruises, as if she was receiving the blows herself. At least they will be repaid, she thought, and then some. Taking the rest of his clothes with her, she went back up the ladder.

Their prisoner was awake and seemed none too pleased to be having Will and Alan chopping off the lengths of his hair. On his chest sat a very large Scot, so there was little he could do about it, besides protest vociferously.

"Do you know who I am? I'll have you hanged for this!"

He turned his head and saw her.

"Lady Marion, what are you…? What the hell is going on?"

She dropped the torn and bloody clothes next to his head. Her eyes narrowed to points.

"We all felt, my lord Sheriff, that it would be better for everyone if you were under some sort of protection. Royal custody, ideally."

His face bulged with fury.

"Get this bloody ogre off of me and let me go, you bastards!"

John released one of the Sheriff's arms and smashed a fist into his nose. His head slumped to one side, blood ebbing from it.

"He's much more pleasant when he's asleep, isn't he?" John asked, chuckling.

"It is going to be harder to get him dressed this way, though," she replied.

"I don't know," said Will. "He had a lot of fight left in him."

She watched as they stripped him, tossing aside his fine linen undershirt and soft wool leggings. Clumsily shifting his arms and legs, they finally got him into Robin's clothes and then left him crumpled on the floor. She looked down at the Sheriff, his hair cropped tight like a yeoman's, dressed in filthy, rent clothing, and she felt something resembling pity. Almost.

Robin had to be carefully lifted up the ladder. None of them said a word, but she knew by the men's faces that they were relieved to see him. Their bodies moved easier, as if a great weight had been removed.

"Harry, you've got that bundle?" asked Will, over his shoulder.

"Got left on my doorstep last night, just as you said it would." He brought over a lumpen pile of fabric; unrolling it, she saw that it was an additional soldier's uniform, complete with mail and surcoat. "I had to sneak it in under my cloak." He winked at her. "Told 'em I'd been fattenin' up for winter."

They helped Robin dress, holding him steady as his legs wavered, tightening lacings and adjusting fabric as if they were his waiting women. He winced as the heavy chainmail was laid on and she prayed that they would soon be gone, and from there find a place where she could safely assess his injuries.

As Alan and John were depositing the Sheriff in the pit below, Will turned to their accomplice.

"Remember, Harry, this prisoner of yours is a notorious liar and scoundrel. He'll say anything or be anyone to escape the noose."

"Like most prisoners, I'd wager. I once had one claimed he was the holy martyred Thomas à Becket. Sayin' you're a dead man don't tend to save you from the executioner."

"Good man," said Will, clapping him on the arm. With an underhand motion, he passed him a small purse. "For the cause," he murmured.

Harry nodded, his brow tightening in seriousness.

"For the cause," he echoed.

They left the same way they had come, following the path of the staircase and the empty chambers. Robin had to be supported each step – he was not strong enough to walk unaided – and it was tedious work getting him to the main door and across the central green.

Back at the eastern gate, the two soldiers were still attempting to stave off boredom and cold. Their heads snapped to attention as the group shuffled by them through the gate.

The first soldier stepped forward, his hand held out in their direction.

"You there! Wait!"

They stopped, turning back to face him.

"There was four of you going in. Now there's five. I don't doubt my counting skills, so one of you better explain this to me, before I call the watch."

Alan moved towards the soldier, smiling wide.

"Well, see, we deposited our prisoner, but on the way back the captain inside says he's got a job for us. One of the men on duty…" – he nodded his head towards Robin – "…he had too much to drink and ended up in a brawl. We was told to take him home." He tapped the soldier with his elbow. "His wife's such a scold, she's going to give him another eye to match, the poor fellow."

The soldier seemed unconvinced, but did nothing to stop them. Marion knew that they had to start moving, before he had a chance to call in reinforcements. The rest of them seemed to know it, too.

As they approached the horses and helped to get Robin astride one, the soldier seemed to snap out of his indecision.

"Wait a moment!"

He moved towards Marion, as she was closest to him, his hand held out as if to grasp her shoulder and stop her from moving. At the last moment, though, her head turned, and his hand pulled away at the back of her mail hood, leaving her bareheaded, her uncoiled hair falling like a rope down her back.

"A woman!" he gasped, a split second before John's fist smashed into his cheekbone.

The younger soldier simply stared, wide-eyed, until he had the presence of mind to scream. A second crunch of bone and flesh ended his cry, but they could hear the sounds of additional soldiers moving rapidly towards them from the round corner tower.

They had hastily mounted and spurred their horses along the north wall by the time they saw soldiers emerging from the battlements. The soldiers began to fire upon them with crossbows, but in the darkness their aim was poor and they were forced to shoot indiscriminately.

She heard a grunt and a small cry. Looking to her right, she saw Alan snapping off the shaft of an arrow that had lodged in between the links of the mail on his back. Her eyes went wide with alarm and worry.

"It's not so deep," he shouted at her over the din of the pounding hooves. She hoped it was true.

They raced towards the postern gate in the city wall – arrangements had been made for it to be left open – and then out into the open countryside east of the city. She could see in the moonlight the pale outlines of a half-built abbey church, the massive stone foundation emerging from the earth like a forgotten ruin. Beyond the building site lay a large copse of ash trees, where they headed, looking for a place to safely stop.

Marion went over to help Robin dismount. She wanted to look at his wounds and clean up his face before they got much further.

From the corner of her eye – as if it had only been a trick of the light – she saw Alan bent double over his horse's neck. Almost gradually he seemed to slide out of the saddle and collapse onto the ground.

As they circled around him, panic reverberated through the air. In the chaos of many hands turning him over, looking for injuries, loosening the clasp of his hood, she looked straight into his eyes and saw him looking back in turn. His face was pale and drawn, contrasting with the darkness of his hair, stains of crimson lining his teeth and the inside of his mouth.

She heard their cries when they found the broken-off arrow shaft, held fast in the open maw of chain mail and blood, but the noise was hushed, as if happening somewhere far from them.

She put a palm to his forehead. It felt damp and cold, like a stone.

He took a shredded breath. Blood began to froth on the corners of his mouth. He smiled. It suddenly became very quiet, as if no one wanted to acknowledge what was happening.

"Sing…" he mouthed, his breath a sound of liquid. "Sing us a song, then."

They looked at each other, their faces mirroring horror and confusion. None of them made a sound.

She looked down at him, her hand still cradling his head, and she began a lilting tune. It was an old song, from her childhood, with lyrics in vibrant Provençal that spoke of a lost city fallen beneath the waves of the Western Sea. She sang of the foolish princess that opened the gates to the tides, of the flood that engulfed her, of her transformation into a water sylph, destined to haunt the rocky coast forever. It was a melancholy song, and she began to feel the tears upon her cheeks as she finished the final verses.

The light had gone from his eyes. His chest had ceased to rise and fall.

The grove was unearthly still.


	21. Before the Dawn

They buried him beside a stately oak tree deep within Sherwood. No one spoke as they lowered him in – no one had said much of anything since that evening – but she took Robin's hand as a prayer was said, feeling it slack around her own.

She wished she knew what to say to him, how to comfort him in such a way that would ease the suffering she saw within his eyes. Nothing seemed right, though. It was as if the world had been pulled off its path.

They had ridden fast for the Scottish border, wanting to be free from the long reach of the king as soon as possible. Joanna had come, as well as Maggie, the sole refugees from the forest camp who chose to go with them, rather than simply melt back into the fields and villages of the shire. Their destination was Dundee: John's family raised sheep and cattle some distance north of the city, on the edges of the Highlands.

After several days' ride, much of it through particularly bleak and rainy countryside, they finally arrived on the outskirts of the city. All they wanted was a place to warm themselves, where they could find a decent supper and a soft bed.

The sole inn they could find was dank and dirty, but the ale was cheap and the rooms cheaper. Rainwater leaked through holes in the ceiling.

There was little conversation over supper. She could feel their exhaustion and desire to simply put the day behind them. Will drank too much ale and tried to sleep with his head upon the table before they finally hoisted him to his feet and put him to bed upstairs.

She felt a small pleasure to discover they would have a room to themselves. They had not been alone since the morning of his capture, and if she was honest with herself, she knew she missed the feel of him. It was unclear to her what Robin was thinking – both with his injuries and his present state of mind – but she hoped that he might feel the same.

He shut the door behind him and looked at her as she perched on the edge of the bed. She swallowed.

He took a step forward, just as a knock rattled the door on its hinges.

His brow tight with confusion, he turned back to open it. A figure, swathed in shadow, held out a gloved hand. He passed over some sort of paper and a leather pouch to Robin before stalking wordlessly away.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A letter," he answered, closing the door. He sized up the pouch in the palm of his hand. "And something heavy."

"What does it say?"

"I don't know." He handed her the letter. "It's addressed to you."

She examined it closely, the smooth vellum, the elaborate calligraphy, and recognized her own Christian name, no more. She handed it back.

"Read it to me."

He tore back the heavy waxen seal and unfolded the paper, smoothing it in his grasp.

"'My dearest lady…'" Robin raised his eyebrows into points.

"Please continue," she said.

"'My dearest lady, I hope this message finds you in good spirits and good health. You may have heard of the events of late, but if not, it shall be my pleasure to relate them to you.

"'Robin of the Hood, the notorious outlaw who had terrorized the countryside for so long, was finally brought to justice and executed this past week within the confines of the Tower. The king did not attend, owing to some ailments which have long been troubling him, although he did send a representative.'"

He sat down, an arm's length away from her.

"'On the same day, one of the guests at my residence, the Sheriff of Nottingham, who had in fact brought the very same outlaw into royal custody, fell violently ill with fever and aches. He would let no one in to see him, excepting my person, despite my continued entreaties to fetch a physician. He continued to decline throughout the evening, finally speaking of seeing spirits flying through the air. In fear for both his life and his soul, I sent for a doctor and a priest, but as soon as I had done so, he overpowered me, knocking me to the floor of the chamber, and then in a delirious state, he escaped out of the house and fled into the darkened streets. Curiously, he has not been seen these five days hence, in spite of numerous searches within the city and the hinterland beyond. I worry that he has come to some unfortunate end and we might never know what has become of him.'"

"'Such strange events to relate, but I have no doubt that you will find some measure of comfort in them. I hope that you will also take comfort with the enclosed offering, which I ask you to accept as a token of my esteem. In our brief days of acquaintance, I must say that I was humbled by the strength of your devotion and determination. Had we met in another time and place, it would have been my honor to take to the field as your champion.

"'I remain, as always, your ladyship's humble servant.

"'William.'"

He laid the letter in his lap and fell back upon the bed covering.

"So this was your plan? The Sheriff being executed as an outlaw? Some patched-up excuse for his disappearance?"

She turned towards him, leaning down upon her elbows, deliberately not touching him.

"We didn't know what else to do. We couldn't leave you there."

He didn't look at her, but continued to stare at some unfixed point in the wooden rafters of the ceiling.

"You should have," he said quietly, as if only to himself.

"Please don't say that. Especially now."

He took a long and deep breath. She could see his chest tightening as he exhaled.

"Do you know what I thought about, when I was in there? I know that you want to think that I was busy planning my escape, that I was looking for some strategy, some way out…"

"It doesn't matter what I think."

She moved her hand towards him, as if to place it on his chest, but he caught her wrist and held it away from him.

"I was ready to die. I had imagined it, so many times. The long walk up the gallows steps, the feel of the rope around my neck, the priest's words. It was as if it had already happened." He turned his head towards her, his gaze catching hers. "I made my peace with God. He forgave me."

She slid her hand down into his, feeling the calluses of his palm, the warmth underneath.

"What have you done that you need forgiveness for?"

"Don't you understand? Everything that I've done – everything I am – has brought people into danger. And rather than meeting my creator with an unburdened soul, I had to watch my oldest friend die in front of me, knowing all the while it was my fault it was happening."

He turned on his side, curling into himself and burying his face in the rough fabric of the bed cover.

"I did this, Marion. I did this," he whispered, his face a misshapen grimace. "It's all my fault."

She lay down next to him, cupping his cheek with her hand and fanning her fingers around the side of his neck. She wished to Heaven above that she could take this from him, as if the pain could simply be transmitted into her through the ends of her fingertips.

"It's not your fault," she answered. "Alan came because he loved you, because he would never have left you behind. And if it had been him, you would have done exactly the same.

"We each make our own choices. You are not responsible for everything that happens. That burden does not belong to you."

He opened his watery green eyes. She wondered what he had looked like as a boy. Perhaps a little like this.

"He was my friend."

She drew him towards her, enveloping him in her embrace, all the world kept at bay.

"I know. He was mine, too."

In time, the candles burned down, the embers of the wick sputtering into a thin tail of smoke. The rain outside stopped, and a day was born into the starry indigo expanse of the sky.


	22. The Final Gift

_This piece has been such a fun summer project, but I will admit that it'll be nice to switch that little button over from "In-Progress" to "Complete." Little did I know when I started it was going to turn out to be such an adventure..._

_Big thanks to all my readers and reviewers (past and future) – knowing someone was out there, along for the ride, certainly helped keep me going! _

Her feet skimmed upon the ground as fat snowflakes wove their way through the evening sky. The snow had begun earlier that day, but hadn't stuck; the night was cold, though, and the path was now strewn with a fine dusting of white.

She wanted to check on the stock before they bedded down for the evening. The Marshal's gift had allowed the two of them to purchase not only their cottage and a timber-framed barn, but a shorthorned heifer and a brace of blackfaced ewes. They would have a steady income, and a firm roof over their heads, no longer held captive by fear or insecurity.

For his part, John had been welcomed back into the arms of his plentiful family, who had almost given up hope of ever seeing him again. There had been a fine celebration the night of their arrival, replete with a kind of _aqua vitae_ made, so John said, with barley grain. It burned her throat and warmed her belly, and within her grew the glow of happiness. Everyone had smiled and danced, and ate until they could hardly stand. Two weeks later, in the first sharp days of December, they celebrated again as John and Joanna were wed, in his childhood kirk, his parents looking on with pride, his long-passed forefathers bearing silent witness under stone crosses in the churchyard beyond. Marion had cried a little, if only for the good fortune of others, and perhaps even for her own.

Inside the barn it was cozy, though not very warm, as she looked to see that there was enough feed and water. One of the ewes gave her a nudge with its head as she passed; she leaned down to give it a rub and breathed deeply from its wool. The fleece was redolent of rosemary and heather, of the spring that would come after the last snows melted away.

She drew closed the barn door and closed the latch, breathing on her cupped hands for warmth as she made her way back towards the cottage. Maggie had gone for the night, choosing to spend the evening with John and Joanna, or maybe even to see Will, who seemed to have caught her eye as of late. Perhaps tonight he might even return her glances.

Once inside, she settled down next to him before the hearthstones, drawing a wool blanket over their shoulders. They were comforted by the warmth of a peat fire in the hearth, secure from the pummeling January winds outside.

For some time, they sat in silence, watching the dance of the smoke as it twirled and lifted, the hypnotic glow of the embers.

"I have been meaning to thank you," she said, turning her face partly towards his.

"For what?"

"For my wedding gift." Her eyes were cast downward, refusing to meet his glance.

"As I remember, you did thank me. But what does it matter now? That mattress is long burnt away to ash."

"No, not the mattress."

His brow furrowed, lined with confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

She took his hand, knitting her fingers through his, and pulled it across the faint curve of her belly. Her mouth was tight as she smiled at him, her eyes awash and brilliant.

He looked at her, hoping yet uncertain.

"When?"

"Mid-summer. I wanted to be sure, before I said anything."

"And now you're sure?"

The corners of his mouth began to turn up, showing the faint outline of a smile.

"Very."

His eyes swiveled away, as if he was seeing something in the distance.

"If it's…" He stopped, holding back the emotion in his voice. "If it's a boy, we should…we should call him…"

She squeezed his hand, wrapping it around her waist.

"That's a fine name for a boy," she murmured.

She leaned back against his chest, curling herself around him, feeling the warmth of the fire on her cheek. She stared into the smoky flames and then let her eyes drift closed. Held tight within the depths of winter, the nights were now long and dark, and full of promise.


End file.
